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

      Comment by Cheryl Shepherd on 28 April, 2019 at 3:53 pm
    2. A fine poem.

      Comment by Donna Snyder on 6 May, 2019 at 5:17 am
    3. Excellent poem

      Comment by Pradnya on 15 May, 2019 at 11:04 am
    4. Brilliantly expressed

      Comment by Amit Shankar Saha on 16 May, 2019 at 3:16 am
    5. voracious with a hunger for expression that will satiate even the sleeping undead . . .

      Comment by David Lewis on 20 May, 2019 at 12:42 pm

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