The Typist

Far fetched from the imagination
fingers dancing, tapping!
Within the borders, around the crevices,
along the caste lineages
into the iris, yourself.

A prelude to your trust issues-
the vintage car in the garage,
Late Latifa dressed in red,
dot of firecrackers masquerading in the mind
on soma and siva's calendar.

Clutching onto a revolver
in the embracing comatose of a mass gathering
the volatile paramount distortion,
out of focused evenings,
that the typist puffs away
at the cornerstones
of the mahakumb chillum.

Aghast,
elvish tongues raving under
the hierarchy of love sick dealing,
at Russian desks, where the typewriter tick-tocks
at the intervals of flash floods.

Ten headless spines navigating
in the sewers, for the record remaining
lesser than infinity,
nature and friendship.