Towards A Life

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Towards A Life
by Amit Parmessur

We take the five-o’clock bus.
(Just like a hungry octopus
wrapping itself around
a delicious crab.)

The bus is as empty as
an old tin can
abandoned in lush grass.
No conductor. No driver.

Only the two of us,
with bloodsucking DJ Mosquito,
riding to an unknown shore
where the softest waves
make love with the sand,
tickling the roadside
with their salty fingers.

We hug in a boat,
like an octopus stuck
to a man he wants to kill.
We then sit on the horizon,
straight as newly-painted lighthouses.
We light the sun
and start the daze of romance;
we touch the sky.

And come back
to make our statues with sand.
You make mine. I make yours.
We sleep.

The statues go
to swim in the childless waves,
obsessed with love making,
towards something blue
while we stay eternally dead.

1 thought on “Towards A Life

  1. Wonderfully terrible. Pretty much everything that’s them is death-related: the “octopus”-like bus and boat. Everything on their periphery is lovely: “the softest waves…tickling the roadside with their salty fingers;” “the statues go to swim in the childless waves…towards something blue.” They attempt to make love “towards a life” but can only pose, like the “lighthouses,” and make “statues with sand” of one another. The last line is a killer.

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