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.

Bare bones

Shall I uncover myself?
and reveal
the juciy,fleshy, red muscles
strung tightly to
a casket of bones.

Bones that will one day
kill me, turn brittle and fade,
disperse into the air
like an withered rose.

You said love is uncovering.
You said love is shedding.
But i knew, you just wanted me
to manscape. Or trim my hair.
The rotten insides
scares away oesteroporsis.

I remember my mother’s old visits
to an old, dingy clinic
and to the giant conglomerate;
All of them wanted to poke
injections into her bones.
They said she is weak.
Doctor says she could die by
just withering away.

So, they injected her with calcium
made her eat calcium tablets
She now has a big plastic box
labelled ‘medicines’.
Still, she complains of leg pain and back-aches.

Uncovering is a painful exercise:
tugging at the skin
pulling the skin hair
baring the muscles
to a world of microbes and UV-light

baring,
baring,
baring,

a nest of empty voices.

 

You stink of rulers!

i lie hidden
like a clean underwear
hiding amongst a pile of
unwashed, unclean clothes.

The old cupboard
with straight lines
has kept me suffocated
amongst the stench of these clothes.
The giant lock prevents me from escaping.

Sometimes i hide among striped men
sometimes i hide among the brightly colored clothes
and
sometimes i just crouch in fear.

Fear of being found
and thrown out
fear of being played whack-a-mole.

Once I slipped through
the tiny light
under the door
They caught me
beat me black and blue.
They turned me upside down
and threw me out.

Ever since,
i lay hidden among
this pile of boring clothes.
Looking for darkness and security.

But that day i found
that a strict and straight ruler
might never understand a poor
clean underwear.

Drunk adulthood.

Strewn in a pile of ashes,
Ejected out of the pilot seat,
Drowned in a glass of liquid;
merging.
Emerging,
a hell lot of parachute-talk
for a man who is dyin.

We go. We go. We go places
and then stop time. Kiss and let it go.
We see. We sea. we see movies in old theaters
and we get bored.
We buy popcorn and an old bottle of rum
couple it with two cups of caffeine.
We drink. We smoke.
We drink. We smoke.

I sit in my parent’s house
on the old iron swing
the pale pillow smells of farts
and I hear creaking
of bones and doors.

Lying in a pool of blood,
anxiety has seeped into me
A deafening silence ensues
a trembling heart.

An another pool
glistening in the sun
comes to my mind,
Me and towels
bare-naked
sitting at the edge
staring at clinking glasses
with fancy liquids- like
crayons in my bag

Playing with imaginary friends
and clashing figurines at each other
We wrote stories
We never were scared
We just clashed and clasped
one figurine onto another.

Marching

A swarm of ants
crawling under my hands
making its way to the navel
walking into a dark and hairy tunnel
they march into it.

The brown bottle storing sugar
has been left open
a couple cubes; lying on the floral sheets
Ants are swarming around it.

The large speaker
emanating bass
trembles the ants away
they bite. they scratch.leave placard lying around.

A plate full of vermin
cultured in a hostile environment
is now a graveyard; shriveled and contracted bodies
Ants walk in and out
It’s a play field for them.

The old man
is grumpy and hairy
and rubs his big hands
on those ants; squishing their heads
Accidentally.

It burns.