The triangular moon on a rectangular night

At the end of this street
As you turn towards the left
There is a tree
Or let me be more specific-
There is a shadow of a tree
On which blossoms buds of sunrays
Its fragrance can be tasted on your fingertips.

The sky has been engulfed by a single drop of the ocean.

In my tea cup floats the sun like sugar cubes made of blood.


From my balcony I look down
And observe that the day is wearing a yellow night gown
And bargaining aloud
With the fish seller
As the fish turn into stinking cunts.
In a momentous swirl of an orgy.


I brush my teeth and wash my face and forget to look at my face in the mirror once again.
I wash myself with my own semen and stick on my mask for the day and walk out of my house into an incestuous world.

I walk.

I cross the road.

I hire a rickshaw.

I put on my glares.

I have only myself now.


I get down and wait as trains prostitute themselves.

I cross the red light area as usual with a phallus instead of a face.
A fart escapes and elopes with the wind.

I try to find my eyes and find it dangling between my legs.

I then realize that I can’t see my shadow. My own shadow. I look around.

I catch a glimpse of myself on the window of a passing car.

And find my shadow.


My own shadow.

I look up and see a triangular moon on the sky.

I switch off the lights of my room.