GESTURE of my city: Karachi, Karachi, Karachi.

GESTURE of my city:
Karachi, Karachi, Karachi.

Funeral City: green at its halo-curve, egdes made of black-flowers, aspiring at the density of laughter, becoming growing enhancing the new color of her eyes, the risked sentences of her hand;
Iceland: the skate of a nuance blue fresh morning of stealth. The hand of deception calling forth in its begging etiquette. An Island caved on the palm of the Ancient Painter of my City: we share the same black blood: gesture here is, hands, hands.
Boats-at-Kemari: just the thought. perfect, dressing on the wound of beauty. the moon is there, there, and here. Its perfect. the city has known me invitingly, enticingly.

Teen-Talwar: the city struck here, three white swords, from the timescape of imagined warriors, imagined landscapes. I used to live here, by the sea and the sword.
Scent, Artificial: Karachi has the scent of crushed roses, fresh roses crushed by paper, it is a bright bright nuance of RED.
Scent, Real: It is the dust of woman, at the least in the hands of a palmist near the old Mazaar, at its worst: in the hands of a man, seeping into her soul.

Music: Karachi lives, lives, lives. It is alive. It needs no music - except the natural sound of crashing sea-waves, the Rickshaw wala's loud engine, the Scooter that you took me for a ride on near the train-stations of Oneonta.

Karachi: black trains, soot-humor, no chimneys - real contacts. City of black friendships.

the last horizon of the beach: somewhere certainly, paradoxical; a student of mathematics turning aesthetic at sun-set, reaching into the neck of the night, and strangling its life: to gain the perfect moment of morning.
we kill nights. There's no other way to do it. the sea is merciless, our landscape makes us bronze like the lamenting moon, in its final stage.

Funland: the rides of the city; the roller-coaster taking you at no-where roundabouts, and the high-rise of the Karachi Stock-Exchange, reversed in the hot-air gentle rising. playing with children; the humor of our eyes.

Apartments; sometimes sixteen stair-cases taking us to our destination; us laughing, us talking, us knowing we'll get there today. buildings of financial-depth, occurring anywhere; an artist - buried deep in ill-humors, fantastic coffee, late night.

There's always the late night.

Karachi at restless hours: calm, neutral, un-forgiving; talisman ring. keeping the company running, both exterior and interior paradigms of stealing arm-stems of rusted-orange evening flowers.

Flowers: petal; a lack. Never there. The rest of the flower: hardly there; infinitesimally articulate, delicate: careful woes. brandished wine-dipped vanilla-scented white flowers. rose, rose, rose.

Karachi's lung(s): the masculine beat of mausoleums. The vibrant charged metaphors of: Namaz. The prayer deep down is subtle: the exterior is perfect atheist. sense of sinister painters, left at the walls of my city. after-death; charming.
karachi lungs: woman walking in the red many-avenues of mega-city: Karachi.

The. train. is. making. many. turns. this. city. never. Ends!. . . . . . . . . .