People here have forgotten to die.

Their tiny village sleeps

through the meteor showers


and late night chemical slip,

blasts and those blisters

that appear to eat flesh.


They live through murders, rape.

People sleep. Wake. Rake their gardens,

and as prescribed by Zen,

they undo their heavy work.


I meet people all the time,

forget their names,

and they do not mind.

They live through my id.




Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

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5 Responses to Village

  1. Cheryl Shepherd says:

    What a haunting poem. This will stay with me for quite some time.

  2. Pradnya says:

    Excellent poem

  3. Amit Shankar Saha says:

    Brilliantly expressed

  4. David Lewis says:

    voracious with a hunger for expression that will satiate even the sleeping undead . . .

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