For Chennai

 

My city is an open sore, a sleepy haven. My city is a den of stiff necked culture whores, home to silk saree clad rogues. My city is a stone by stone replica of hope in a different time, my city is one huge surging mass of people on the road. My city is a vessel for every drop of rain, an ocean until the day it drains. My city is a woman in chains, a man bent under his own weight. My city waits and watches first before it goes to war, my city is a cunning snake that cuts your heart. Yet leaves you unhurt. My city is a rude angry freak, a fist shaken under your feet. My city is a chime of high pitched bells, a home of unknown hells. My city can only cry not talk it burns quietly on garbage piles, it smiles but no longer walks. My city robs me every day, then fills my dreams and walks away. My city is where I learned to cry, it watched over until my tears ran dry. My city is the symbol of surreptitious intrigue, it opens new conspiracy like a tap and fills up on bits and pieces of random gossip until it bleeds and pure color ensues. My city is the house of ageless songs, of beautiful women and the nicest boys. My city breathes in noxious fumes, and lets its spirit be consumed. My city is a wild free manic dance, a nap in the park, the best coffee in the world. My city is the swish of morning sweepers, the smell of camphor, the sound of together. My city is a teeming house of ants who labor dusk to dusk till death. My city is a living armchair that rocks you with its last breath. My city is where I learned to wait, I learned to sit back and let myself be loved. My city sleeps safe inside my feet