B.A.

We all shared a fantasy

about college walls

splashed; dripping

under the scent of adolescent penis,

bleeding profusely in the color of red

forming the sickle-hammer flag.

 

Of a giant knowledge tree,

under which,

leaves were rolled in paper–I could hear the trees

screaming– burnt at the crushed, twisted edges

while our hearts flew into palpitations,,

each fag produced a ideational obeisance

of which we knew little.

 

Or a much more,

innate desire–

to rebel and destroy,

even the bell the rings regularly,

invariably, making me salivate,

but nevertheless, an absence of hierarchy.

And like school children

we would walk out of classes

or sulk in corners.

 

But  what kept us together

was a silent yet intelligent voice

which kept screaming

“premature ejacualtion”

 

 

 

Perperators

On listening to Howl in the morning
Among kneeling at the church,
and confession boxes,
And proclaiming Christ as the savior,

In musty creaky ceilings
where pigeons haunt like
the Holy Spirit; with fire they descend their shit
while we pray. We howl to a deaf God.

The poorly tied knot,
On my alter boy robes. The smell of frankincense and myrr.
Holy Lord! Why do you need so much fragrance?
Do you stink?
Or do your servants do not obey?
that you fog our eyes
Until we choke on our prayers.

In suspended ash and myrr,
My mind is a like Pilate’s bowl;
It wants to be clean,
But it’s stained with memories.
Memories that flood the cities
Until they wash away people
And its streetlights.

And there you appear
In heavenly divine attire
In sing-song tune
Out of the priest’s mouth—I
look around. They scream God
yet they love you
It’s you who burns their heart.

They all walked out
naked. weightless and guiltless.
Woe these people!
who create prisons out of your words
who wear rich armaments and golden crosses.

You set hands free
to masturbate on typewriters
Broken minds waltz in your blanket
Tears running down I say
They call you God.

Fever

He sat outside while it rained. The red asbestos sheet sheltering him and the dog. Mother was making coffee in the newly shiny decoction set. And he could see it from the window.

Rain was getting heavier. Clouds were clashing against each other with vengeance. Sparks from flying off the electricity pole. He pulled another chair and put his feet on top of it. The sound of the rain falling made it impossible for him listen to his mother calling him.

She came and nudged him.

Startled and shocked, he let out a shriek—shriller than a girl—and dropped the coffee on the white tiles. He held the steel cup with the coffee falling all over and kept it on the wooden table. Continue reading “Fever”

The 2d story

A memory
constructed
construed;
from broken milk teeth
and old old tea table.

Spans into a middle age man,

Or a boy who thinks he is old

Still biting candy out of wrappers

And playing pop music

Chained to the rhythm.

Watching and staring

At the computer screen

Flipping through online sites

Worrying about the MS word cursor.

Blinking.

The coffee mug is empty

My table is cluttered

The song has been playing in loop.

 

Time is no longer relative

It has actually stopped

My watch has stopped ticking

I can hear time cry.

 

There is a tiny pimple

On my freshly-mowed cheeks

That I see in Louie’s face

A kaleidoscopic reflection of my childhood.

 

But sometimes

I feel paper thin

Like I am the paper

Or its me in ink.

 

I am floating in an origami world

Being floated and folded

Into a fine little duckling

Waiting to be slaughtered.

 

I am

A product

Among the multitude

Of them stacked

And racked in shelves

 

No, no. I am a dream.

A slip.

Into some dumb person’s imagination

Where memories are just lying flat

Staring at the skies

Like two lovers

In 2d.

Why does she arrive?

She comes in a tonga cart
smelling like shit
wearing tattered old clothes;
made from old bedsheets
and crown made of used paper bags.

The princess come right
onto my desk
taking a dip in my
fabulously new pool
of dark blue liquid.

But why can’t she be adorned in flowers
or decked in jwellery?
making me a pauper.

Um. Ahem.. Cough. It hurts.
A series of life-sustaining noises
creep out of this carefully sealed jar.

I can’t even find rice
to paste this envelope
like my mother used to.

Death of poetry

It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.

But I don’t know if people talk
Enough
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.

It seems.
You know.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.

It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.

You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
Circus town.

“Something is amiss”
You say
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.

Steamy hot politics

I want to be an a-political writer
Dreaming, wanting, desiring
Touching, feeling an erection in the bathroom stall
Downing whiskey shots with beer –batter onion rings
Listening, watching, smiling, and dreaming again.
Fall in your arms and wake up with you naked—the
Sheets fresh with semen yet crumpled like the discarded tissue.

My first baby tooth, my first kiss, my childhood toys we used to play
The color of crystal clean water, the vodka glasses with my batch name on it
The sound of honking in the streets, my father’s dahlias, my mother’s cooking
The tank overflowing, neighbors yelling
And finish it, with the sound of a cooker going off
The bland smell of rajma in the air.

I want to write about your flags. Some are red colored while some
Are yellow and green. Some are just white and some are just like
Colorless odorless gas. Reeking of a self-conscious stench. The breath of a burnt revolution.
But I prefer your long hair, swishing in the air
While you talk about these colored acts.

But, honey, your sickles and hammers make me sick
Your flowers and gestures
Yet, I love the grin on your face
When I tell you we are alone
Alone in the room, parents are away
And you just lie naked
For me to watch, for me to write.

Don’t make me write
Don’t take away my words
Don’t force my hand on your girth-full cock
Yet I love my lips pursing
At the sight of a dream;
Awoken and sleep.