Untitled Poem # 30…

by Talha Minhas

To Sylvia Plath and Dean Moriarty…

The streets are full of drunk folks,
Searching for their voice and ‘smoke’.
Stretching lights, and empty pockets –
Blurred lines and glaring streetlamps.

Lovers break free — in hopeless longing;
Searching for their land.
Unending streets, cats on tin roofs in dark alleys –
Willows creaking; come the dead howl of lost friends.

Boys swaying around in wound up jazz bars;
Looking for kicks.
Drinking hemlocks…
Losing money, shame — and identities.

Sitting alone on lonely benches,
Reflecting on our lost chances –
Not regretting.
While languid hours pass, make
Peace with yourself.

Girls hanging out, giggling, swagging –
Notgivingashit… and whispering again.
Swinging on old ragged music,
Getting high on Miles, Waits and Morrison.

What difference can a little boy make?
Seeing within the Heart of Darkness,
Shuddering, clutching and crumbling,
Over the empty past and a harsh future.

Values lost —
Or forgotten, as
The world suffers delusion.
We are searching for our music.

Wandering in an abandoned town,
Looking for his ‘blues’ —
This man is becoming of you;
As you are becoming of him.

Where are the blues taking us?
Here, there, and everywhere.
Into the shallow streets, hollow trees,
Over the tents and half-burnt paintings —

Into the kitchen –
Filled with gas and a gasping Plath girl,
While her children sleep –
In another room.

Talha Minhas; Bielefeld, 13.6.2016.