A Gathering of Rebel Meteorites, In The Middle Of Nowhere.

Bar stools, twisting,
On orbits of steel,
Reflected, that night,
The shine
Of a fifty few stars
That were all
‘Made in China’
And sold in Delhi ─
Gift wrapped in
Copper and tungsten wires ─
To adorn the walls
Of an apartment that had,
No one to call
His own,
And yet smelled of
Leather upholstery,
And hung-over infinities.

And on them sat,
Meteorites who had
Sneaked out, away,
From their inconsiderate parents,
To do the
Mambo number five,
And craft, in this

Inebriated haze
Their own galaxies.

22nd

A bunch of wayward meteorites, 4:59am.

 

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