 Divya Manikandan is a resident of Bangalore, India, who is currently building her own poetic arsenal, painting as a form of meditation and creating short films as a form of expression. Literature is her means of escape from reality, however her reality has always been to become a surgeon. Her work has been accepted for publishing by Plum Tree Tavern, EskimoPie and Red Eft review. BROKEN BARCODES Broken barcodes everywhere, we’re swung in the frenzy of our own consumerism. We shun human trafficking, labelling acts against moral principles and yet we wake up every day selling our souls to notions of capitalism. It’s a dog eat dog world and we’re drowned in the playback sound of clashing titles, and haunted opinions. Idealists and their tunnel vision, socialists and their wide frame panoramas. It’s optimistic how we think we live in a functional utopia. It’s but a social construct that we built to hydraulically (re)press intuition and individuality. This life is a two way street of thought and counterclaim, but we march down one way and leave behind the ones that try to break the flow. We follow those disillusioned with the petty grievances, caught in their own web of lies and all that’s left is to wait for our death and voices to crystallize. IN THE TIME AFTER You can tell that this ground has seen wars. When your feet press against the dark crevices you can sense the songs of the soldiers that once bled. When your eyes glance across the fields to the Dahlias that grow around the fence, you can almost see the trenches of darkness that once existed in the same place. When a distant crow flies above you the world beneath your feet projects the shadow of large fighter planes that once ripped through the skies. Listen to the walls that now border this place, you can hear the wailing of the women and hungry children that tried to escape. Ghosts of wronged innocents, spirits of lost patriots, and souls of entire nations meander hopelessly on this land. And if perhaps you happen to meet one someday, be sure to tell them that they lost in vain- because the dusty books of history have long forgotten their holy names. REWIN(D) The nights that we saw the wolves give birth to their cubs, the days we saw the flames make love to the air of the earth. The mystical mornings and walks down fog saturated beach shores, the cool evenings of watching our shadows dance on ceilings overhead. The afternoons we jumped heavy compound walls and ran with the wind, the dusks that we sat on the grass and watched the sky’s iridescence in a time lapse. The sunsets that turned into sunrises the hours that turned into minutes the wrinkles that turned into acne: hit the rewind button and take me back to the life of innocence and surprises.
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