Turning and tossing and trying to
sleep
In a bid to fight the night and
the mind
I dream I’m Colonel Aureliano
Buendia
Weaving tiny gold fishes
But the only thing that glitters
tonight
Is the sweat on my roommate’s
bare black body
As he dreams about joyrides on
his bullet
In the big broad Banjara Hills
road.
The bright blue strip of
pink paracetamols
Tempts me but I dream of
Dostoevsky
And decide to write one more
poem.
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