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.
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.