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by Shahzeb Ahkter




Amy Winehouse,
do your bones still jazz for us;
from beneath the heaviness,
from that other world?
The tattoos were permanent
and I remember the boldness,
the expressiveness.

A tiny thing,
this life;
do you believe in ghosts,
or in love at first sight?
O’ saki, bring me my chalice,
and what on earth are you doing at 5
in the morning
with your Telly’s full voice.

Eyes smashed with ink,
kohl maligned with soil
and a non existent thing,
this memory:
I never understand of what eternity
writers, singers, actors, boast.
I don’t understand
how it helps post-final sleep.
I mean you’re deep in slumber,
and that’s just it.
Hamlet’s poisoned blood splattered
over the soil,
and alcohol through your veins
..back to black, back to black..
back to sleep.




Photo credit: to be attributed


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