A flag that I can call my own

A little to the left

push it to the end

Stop, before you hit the wall.

turn it by around by three sixty

face it that side

face it to the wall

face it in a way nobody sees your face.

 

Lie still like a human sushi platter,

don’t flutter around like a butterfly

cause the Gods died ages ago,

Don’ think. Don’t feel, Just lie,

like a story book in the shelf.

 

Be colorless, Be odorless.

be anything but shed blood.

For all I care, be a rainbow unicorn

in a fantasy world where clouds

are made of marshmallows, but

don’t rain the city with your knives.

 

Don’t put a ring on my cock. If it’s not yours.

Don’t color my hair or ask me to cut it.

Don’t ask me to recite words or die for it.

Just follow a lot of dont’s  and mind your business.

 

I like my flags in solidarty

with the silence

of them fluttering

in the evening breeze.

 

 

 

 

 

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I want a story that I can call mine

If I believe in your myths

Will I receive twelve baskets of bread?

If I eat your lies

Can I feel beauty?

On the holy altar

Can I sleep on cold nights?

Amongst thieves and evil mongers

Would I be gnashing my teeth

If I yell out loud

In your hollow chapels?

Your frankincense surrounds me.

Covers me in your holy attire

The smell of nicotine and damp earth

Freshly brewed coffee and poetry of some long-lost lover.

The music of a woken-up city, sound of neighbor’s yelling, the warden’s last call for dinner

Could I scream in ecstasy?

As I find pleasure

In the deep ravines of my trouser’s

Will you let me, rebuild my lost city?

Wedding processions

I speak

I speak what you don’t want to say

You speak a language, I don’t want to hear

My ears, my tongue, my lips and my ass

They aren’t purified in the verbosity of poetry

but scandalised and tormented

in the burning heat

that makes me

taste a language

saline and bitter;

the chillie-rimmed glass

of this hand job

ejaculates in blood and tears.

We no longer speak

because we were dead

long back

or we never existed,

Let’s not conjoin fingers

in an expression of orgy across world

or either shriek in pain

to the loud drums beatings outside the house.

Pursuit

I lack words,

when my eyes are shut

and my ears are sealed

and a hum of a metro

or a toy train rattling off

in distance; in and through the

ragged entrances of black boulders

cut into neat arches

dispersed among the pines and the spruces

Disappearing and appearing

synchronous with my warm chest

kept warm by the many layers of clothings

that adorns my fragile body.

 

My body trembles

shivers at the sight of it’s sound

Now, running through the green grass

leaving footprints,making darker shades of green portraits

brushed away by the evening wind.

 

The sound of a ceiling fan

losened

the sound of an alarm clock

faster

the thumpings on the door and the walls

louder

mellowing into a scream of unisex cry.

 

I stood at the balcony

staring at the blue sky

the rumblings now far less evident

freezing in the cold wind; my ears getting warmer,

It had passed.

 

 

 

 

 

Melancholic skies

This weather is the worst.

It makes people sick!

Sometimes, like a cold blanket

And sometimes, like an over-fed fire place.

 

This city isn’t Hawaii

Covered by warm, clear skies

With the sound of waves rushing

Into the lands,

 

We hear,

Large noise of motorbikes,

The swarm of office-going bees,

And the occasional azaan in the air.

 

But the large buildings

Rusting into time

Have cast long shadows

Into eternity.

 

Enough, have you taunted me,

Walk out of the cloudy skies!

And shine forth your glamourous shine

I am a poor boy in lack of Vitamin D.

My comrades are silent!

Brothel-like,

white eyes of Bellagio Suites

stare into the crisp shadows hiding me–

forming from men hanging their day’s spent

on parallel lines of black cable wires

their now drenched, detergent smelling jerseys

leaves puddles on hot terraces.

 

While, I stand

Smell of coffee wafting

the yellow lights yellower than a jaundice patient

brighten more than the neighbor;s dusty car

I feel breezy

and hear caressing. Like waves falling one on top of other.

forming a effervescent froth on the top; a taste of saline

Fish pickled in vinegar.

 

But honestly, these silent beings,

made of flesh and concrete

steel and blood

stand uncomplaining

to my constant chatter

only speaking among the shadows

their long bodies cast.

 

But when I look,

far and wide;

a city far away

with far less people

with nevertheless, a million lights.

 

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”