DOORBELLS

the mushroom sprouted...
it tore through your being,
a harvest unexpected, unwanted...

it was a blast, wasn't it?
a blast of colours...
colours?
hell yes!
colours unidentified,discomposed...
colours, whose searing blush imprinted on quivering skins, the patterns...
patterns of trivial life, imprinted on skins by the searing blush.
and colours, whose hue and tinge would be debated over still-
was it red? black? yellow? or white?

she was caught unaware...poor thing!
with a baby pink porcelain cup pressed to her lips,
the lips...
lips?
yes,lips....though charred to wooden silence, but lips still.
lips pressed to the cup...pressed in prayer...
a single urgent wisp of prayer, stillborn.

8:15 in the morning...
yes, 8:15 it was, when the postman yawned his way into your land...
into your land...
and dropped the Little Boy into your letter-box...

I shudder to behold doorbells-
they gleam a menacing shade of crimson...
the crimson of sudden mushroom harvests, of cloth-patterns embossed on skins,
of soft lips parched black, dripping tea-drops.
the crimson radiating off the bare backs of the world...
the doorbell....
the doorbell that hunts for answers, retaliation, a kick for a kick...

and so the dates are rolled out...like mock red carpets, one after the other-
1941 tied in a love-knot to 1945,
1945 furnishing its abode with reels of unyielding metallic curtains...
the metallic curtains, lovingly erecting haphazard walls...

the doorbell continues to ring...
a jarring sound that knows no respite.
you have to answer it, there is indeed,no respite...

and the mushroom sprouted....twice.