POETRY : love is not in the air by Ishitv Vats

love is not in the air

the air is decided by

frustrated men

in three piece suits

with their monoxide breath

and air conditioned conference rooms



oh how i loathe

the suffocating lack(generally)

of oxygen in the closed underground chamber of the home

of enduring manhood and white constellations, like the Ganges

Delta, on the polished black stone of massive proportions, the god of manhood and cannabis. milk spilled, willed to be thrilled

not consumed by

devious hungry milkman and his penchant for adulteration

the sickly figures not human

below the holy cow and its child denied its food are the sickly figures their larynx crushed by the weight of the cow's holiness

oh how i loathed

the suffocating lack(generally)




the air ruled by cold logic

some of then even insulated

so that they don't let any of that warm air out, in black black suits

this species of albino

polar bears, these grievous gentrifiers, the sword and the blindfold and the weight and the gold that makes it.

these people of the cold

dark trenchcoats, ruling the world. with their cold freezing law

and liquid nitrogen fascism

they tell you how to live




but it seems to me my loathing

bubbled in turbulent gurgling

stacked books of science melting in perchloric,

historic

directed towards the gods wrong

i cannot stay strong

I love the smell of the Myrrh melting and sizzling, or the poetry,

i love the cold water you must wash your feet in before entering the Gurudwara,

i dance to sufi and i think a salt shaker of christmas spirit over the world would not be bad.

they made religion a fad.

I'm quite mad

and frankly sad that

the men in suits, the one in their air conditioned conference rooms

ruined it all




ruined the air with their poisonous pipes, the water

the dream has since

died. the fountain

came, it took everything.

soda from the ground

dam the dream

damnation the dream

pipes for the

1%. metal in furnace

smoke, soot and obsidian

land of the lion

lying as an art, river and a

raincheck, dacoits strolling in

the sand and the remains.

fingers holding syringes.

dryness and salt. tendrils of a drought. scars. vascularity of the sand.

bodies of the labour.

floating, bloating and decomposing.

posing for the camera




the men in suits, the ones in their air conditioned rooms. sleeping on graves

cold concrete comfortable

love is not in the air

the air is decided by

demand supply curves

and the men in suits, the ones in their air conditioned rooms

ruined it all



About the poet :
Ishitv Vats is a young poetry enthusiast.  He has been published before in the Wingword Winner's Anthology 2019 and is very keen to keep honing the craft and learn more about it.
He is currently studying biology at St. Xavier's College, Mumbai.