I woke up one day to realise
My hostel room was a landfill dump.
The universe under my bed,
Which had promised me infinity,
Was running out of appetite
For plastic wrappers of my gluttony.
It spit out all my basketballs
Of crunched up crispy “party packs”
I gulped down by the triple dose,
Protecting fellow hostelers
From evil junk food overlords.

I was the segregation secretary:
The plastic went under my bed,
The tasty went under my skin,
And though my bed gave up on me,
My growing girth assured me that
It will support me all the way
Even beyond the edges of
The judgy mirror on the wall.

I couldn’t stand the wrappers, though.
I couldn’t stand them on the floor,
On the table, on the shelves,
On the shut down window sill.
Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.
Reminding me of treacheries
Slumping out from underneath.
I pulled the mattress off the bed,
And tractored into the room next door,
Announcing to my best friend that
I will be sleeping on his floor
Until the end of present term.
And can I dump my stuff on yours?
Was all he ever asked of me.

No wonder I can’t stand the room
Inside my digital marketing head
When on a pillow on the floor
I sit in meditation, quiet.
No wonder I can’t sleep at nights.
I run into my buzzing phone
Into the strobe-lit 4K minds
Of movie czars and YouTube stars,
Bingeing bingeing bingeing on.