My mind is a capital city
which slides back into itself
despite redirected rivers.

It is multilingual diversity
sometimes filled with desire,
chewing on culture
with railway track teeth.

It is a museum of lost love,
gallery of alternatives;
wears startling statistics
like favourite lipstick.

It revels in deal making,
transient intensity;
and litters my brain waves
with the grit of routine.

My mind is a capital city
Centre of Polygog
a trending metropolis,
architect of dreams.



Diminutive grey bird lay curled
in bed of tat and feather fluff,
my whispered coo not near enough
to wake the pigeon from its slumber.

But fast twist flick away she flew
on renewed mission; how those creased
expressive wings awakening
were bright ascendants on the wind.