I wake up with ghettos on my body
– infamously virile, villainised, inaccessible.
it’s dark and the lights are out
yet the spotlight is always on my body
eyes on their own
and eyes chaperoned by eyes
hands on their own
and hands guided by hands
thoughts on their own
and thoughts misinformed by sounds
it’s a sound
it’s always been a sound;
of the unrelenting susurration
of the morally corrupt vocabulary
(re)defining the ghettos of my body
I stand perplexed, blindsided, blinded
as a thousand eyes stare right back at me
a Sunday is almost a Monday
and language is almost its own translation
still oblivious to my existence –
a whorishly incomprehensible universe
continues to saunter through the itinerary of my griefs.
Standing still in the conundrum of inebriation; Rahul Jha writes. To learn certain things and to unlearn the rest. On a regular afternoon, he looks at his life in the third person and gets increasingly agitated at how things continue to reveal themselves.