He finished his Murakami in the quiet of a dark, abandoned alley. The kind of street where lovers do what lovers do (truth be told, he had no idea, but he also couldn’t care less). He laughed scornfully at the mere idea of it.
‘lovers do what lovers do’
could definitely pass for an overrated-and-misattributed-to-Bukowski quote
Shotto (say शोत्तो) walked away at the sound of approaching laughter; around the corner- daft, forlorn and bereft of life. Heaving pathetically for the sake of the night.
God knows what the night brings, Shotto thinks, but the unsuppressable urge to escape.
Get on the midnight train to the heart of the city,
and when you hurt a little everytime the sun sets
remember all the lovers in the back alley,
wishing on a dead star to feel alive.
How fucking ironical.
But Shotto laughs.
He laughs pitifully at the intoxicated fools, on whose sorry gravestones, his insignificant little maxim will end up as a glorified epitaph (undoubtedly attributed to Bukowski).
He laughs like he’s so fucking above us all, like he’s so fucking poetic.
like he’s inherently incapable of love.
like when he’s on the train, he doesn’t intentionally brush his skin against the curve of a stranger’s hip. like he doesn’t clip his skin on a nail chipper to feel alive. Maybe he is above us all, for he can’t remember which one of his muses taught him that trick.
He gets on the midnight train to the heart of the city. Sings a little prose to the rhythm of the wheels, which is all the night brings to him – the prose, the poetry, the art
All images © 2018 Sanjukta Bhowal