photo from pixabay

The Complex Quantum of the Magnetic Fields

Some salesmen smokes in the market. The chickens are still alive. The shops
release the stretching cats from their shrouds.
Rigor mortis has set in some mice, some writhing.
Megaphones slur. Words travel in paddle-carts.
Work has been cancelled by the union demanding
more works. Our favourite mad man turns, yawns, farts.
The flight of the pigeons thunderclaps
the complex quantum of the magnetic fields into the sky.

An Address Bleeds On The Door Once more I've come to the door, scored a photo, asked the mystery behind- "What is it that keeps pulling me in?" The numbers on the woodwork, hand-painted, bleed a lot, and I wait as if its wound would heal, the address would instill a jiffy etched in the air like a capricious feather. Knock on the skull; if I have ever here as a resident…