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
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.
In the beginning,
And then, there was life.
made in some dingy, dark room.
I cried. I yelled.
My voice resounding my ears
my body vibrating like a tuning fork.
Toilet paper rolled out
on the floor
chucked in the bin
A swarm of bees
and the KFC bucket.
This grief has suckled the life
out of me. A birth-giving mother
that bashed her infant’s head
on the black stone
It’s a river that flows;
along the village
dark and murky
from the factories
Flag, sickles and loud noises
Applause and swatting of flies
More the anger grows,
bigger my penis shows.
Aside in a corner
drooling on the pages
I lie- waking
in the middle of night
checking if the pages were filled.
The calm night
has a breeze,
has a tone,
of a lover.