I am smoking a Marlboro as I am writing a poem,
aware of someone’s claim of life
being a cigarette,
beginning with a light
and ending with powdery ashes,
also aware of someone urging to
‘write life in poetry’ to be a real poet.
I seem to be writing a poetry about cigarette.
Hemmed in by the circular fugs of smoke,
I have a feeling of having found a rhythm,
of having established a mundane sequence-
inhale the smoke
and write a poem about life simultaneously.
My life is in the ashtray now,
away from me
but it is waning
as if telling me that
there had been reckless sleeps,
there had been countless drinkings,
and so we live in gullies and nooks,
and so we let our life wane unknowingly.
Is life something that parishes whether you live it or not?
No, I don’t want to let it slip off.
Scared and excited,
I pick my life and smoke it,
seeing the part of my life up to the label drop.
Marlboro, 555, Surya-
Maybe these are the deadlines of life.
But I don’t want to pause,
hell bent as I am on living it to the fullest.
I ceaselessly smoke
I ceaseless fall off until
the fire gets at my fingers and I ache.
Yes, I ache and feel
‘An old life bothers yourself’
I wish not to wait to die, bored with life.
I throw the dogend on the floor
and run out, having trampled it.