The Blackhole Syndrome and In A Choking City by Kushal Poddar

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Blackhole Syndrome

A father’s flesh and look are nothing.

He is the shape of benevolence

or the lack of it.

He is love. He is hate. He is the bread,

hushed red apple-ball and leather straps 

of Freud.

I have an urn of ashes. It means not even 

the choking mist if I drop it on the floor.

The way one makes paper planes 

if I could craft a memory spaceship

it would traverse the void albeit it must find

a blackhole.

In A Choking City

The umbrella opens up about

the sunshine severance.

Nothing mind won’t instruct

when it knows muscles won’t follow.

Today I dream about Pyro something.

It may be true as well; I feel fire

in my lungs, debris and ashes in my heart.

Rain punctures the skin of verity.

Kushal Poddar, The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, and published across the globe. 

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