jerin jacob

I woke, perspiring
trickling beads glistened a ripe shade of the Styx
middle of the dawn, or the dusk, well
each blurred into the other anyway.

I stood nonchalantly in the attic kitchen
sipping some, spilling more,
when I heard a remotely concrete buzzing -
the distinct murmur of hushed vector voices, digital laughs, ones that
knew how and when to start and pause
to intimidate, to unnerve;

My curious peepers caught the absently present source
transfixed, sideways, steady intoxicated movement
upon my wall calendar.

I stared agape -
black numbers locked in vintage boxes, static, frozen,
exuding fumes of euphemism vehemently reflective of an eerie globe,
an anthropology of silence,
outlining the humanoid chaos caused by a pocket virus
of gargantuan potency in a world steadily inebriated, nurturing screens.

Behold, an asynchronous milieu!
a nocturnal party of numbers,
topsy turvy tipplers, playing judge at a world
they once controlled with their calendar time.
I listened intently, borderline eavesdropping
to hear the dates on my wall calendar
high-five, talk, prank, chuckle, game:

an antakshari of adjectives

s silent t / t tired d / d distorted d / d discriminative e / e eerie e / e elusive e / e empty y
y . . .

Interspersed with schnockered antics
to describe, chide, ridicule, reflect
the clueless indifference they saw around,
whilst blocked long enough on calendar screen pages.

I moved away, panting to my heaving, unpopulated bed;
that night afresh, my dreams were Zoomed, Facetimed -
locked down

silent, tired, distorted, elusive . . . empty

antakshari: a spoken parlor musical game often also known as the ‘game of the ending sound’