desire

Spring Mushrooms

9/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

jai ma

It is bloom
and in my dreams,
I have started appearing in a village
on the mountains.

I have laid down my embellishments
and picked up my poetry,
and remorseless, I wander
in pettiness and small ideas
of how you gave me your hand,
in the silk of
damp valleys and noodle aromas.

There was a singing in your hands
and on the railroads
there was love in your teeth
of noon-light
‘what a benign monster’
I laughed and let you take me away.

It was a narrative of a homegrown potted plant
and closed rooms with translucent windows
in a wild forest of sun
and still I romped about
in whatever boy-bike empire
you called your home.

You had biting eyes when I made the window blind
and I waited for you
in mad laughter
of a free playschool of heart
with no suitcases of mind.

Of all signals chopped like an onion
and all the people crying in the world
that I have eloped
in my transgressions,
but still I rise
in whimsicality.

वो शौक है रंग बदलता है मैं रंगरूप का सौदाई

Author Notes: My heart is a genius of utopia. 

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A pinch of stars

The words called me

I rinsed them with the left-over repression

And wondered if the sneeze she let out

Was a symphony of sympathy

For me?

 

I said god bless you

For he had ruined me

When I thought my heart, my love

Was made tender through a suspicion of affection.

 

‘Suspicion of affection’ are ghosts

That make you believe in unnatural things like:

Mother who loves her child

Father who sings lullabies

And a dire Jupiter pregnant with life.

 

Things turn upon themselves

And worlds are all upside down.

I fetishise one smile then,

When its tongue is smothered by suspicion of affection,

I let him caress me, indifferently,

If only to let the warmth out.

 

Picture credits: Laura Makabresku : “self-portrait with my dear Husband (Kraków, 2015)”

Vanitas

Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon


As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 

Bloom

He slit my throat.

 

Scarlet mixed with some southern blue

Trickle down upon my neck of a

Never-ending wound.

I see you

Making me leave me

Into you

 

A phantasm

Of existing

In an un-manifested non-material space

Of an absent presence

Like the sky above the mountains

That comes to me in dilated scents;

With distance,

I’ve learned conjuring.

 

It is a dark art to enjoy a gash

Of uncertainty

And wear it like a necklace,

Tell me,

If that is poetry?

Head of gold

 

I forget poetry.

The lover in the sky consumed by the city fumes,

I forget poetry and then I forget myself.

 

Why do their faces fill up with boring operas

Announced like an airport flight, I fly

Like a man inside a coral,

There is no end to how we will feel,

For how many we will feel.

 

In his face a mirror,

There you will see a self, performed—a mere body of naught

Strangled with wish-locks of what I want to be.

Nude him of desires, can you love a skull?

To love not to be loved.

 

Once upon a gentle day,

There blows the breeze sweeping away false candour

And I am here lying awake upon the moon,

Once again throwing out poetry for you to catch, revived,

As if all their workers paid, the union sigh,

In me lay tipped, several glasses full.

 

I see a face.

I see a bony man when the night is full.