incessant racket

it is always there
the grinding clamour
of cement brick and plaster
being blasted to smithereens
the deafening friction of machine on wall floor or ceiling
right next door
or below or above me
everywhere i go
in every country i can call home loosely or with firm conviction
with every dwelling i can park my self and my belongings at
every fucking where this incessant pounding and banging
racking havoc with my fragile head
it isn't funny when all i want is peace and some frigging quiet or if not that then at least
the prospect of a head that isn't throbbing
a mind that is free to roam without being hijacked by that whirring rumbling chugging of a ceaseless beast
do i really have to leave the sanctity of home or so it seems this is for now
and shuffle among the potentially unhealthy flu carriers in mall after mall to escape this noise
trade this for another version of calamity
where every penny i cling on to seems magnetized by something bright and colourful and price-slashed
not once but three times over...final reduction!
still my head throbs, my ears ring long after they have gone home to briyani rice
my pages blank unwritten stories and poems stuck within
my rows of books unread
all driven to a sadistic halt by the incessant racket