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”

 

 

 

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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.

It’s the same old lover

In the beginning,

there was

Art.

And then, there was life.

 

A crude

washed-up picture

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

Old cosmetics

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

spewing death.

 

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.