I fail poetry and poetry gives up on me. This is the machination
of muses and fates. The present is a documentary playing on the
back of a cloud. These Bangalore nights. The uncensored underbelly.
The filth, the loneliness, the lies, the insomniac buildings that
follow the sun, the bikes tripping on empty roads past midnight,
the feet stumbling out of overpriced pubs and seedy bars, all
dreaming the same dream, all reaching for the same exit, a
one-way street jammed from this red light to the next. An
arthouse film in monochrome. Around the haunting cliché
of a poet at her desk staring at an empty page. Writing a poem
that has no intention of being written. Ninety minutes later,
she crumples the paper and lets it fall to the floor. The floor
that falls with it. The silence that breaks with it. The poet who
flies through the window and rips up the yellow moon. The end.