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,
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
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.
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
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.
We all shared a fantasy
about college walls
under the scent of adolescent penis,
bleeding profusely in the color of red
forming the sickle-hammer flag.
Of a giant knowledge tree,
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,
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
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.
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”
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.
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.
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.
Among the multitude
Of them stacked
And racked in shelves
No, no. I am a dream.
Into some dumb person’s imagination
Where memories are just lying flat
Staring at the skies
Like two lovers
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.