beauty in you

I will bridge you with the birch
between our tongues; cloister
my speech as though it was
a language you know and I toast
yours as my own.

lexicon our saliva and nodes
and finger my spine with yours
do you see the wetting of my eyes
do you know how to rotate yourself?
The slickness of appetite
rouses up in my belly
and throat

which offers itself as cups to drink
do not mistake this as obedience
and I will not mistake yours
as entropy.

Tied to the larynx
met with the hungry mouth
of dialogues as the sexes unite
an acrhway cathedrals its way up
towers its way down and the minarets
lay the tone.

coupled in between our lashes
we kiss uncontrollably.—

Perseverent

I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

ennui-tonic

this import of aggression that ennui had made
worsted and winnowed into a fine parable
that only I can share; I who hold the bones
and the crosshairs of my skeletal affixations

this tire which is smoothened and crinkled by the night
whose gaze is not a penetration by a clitoral malady
and not a sufficeless prefix that pretends to bode well

there is a feeling, as I said in the last verse, an endless beginning
or a ending without any beginning. I am obsessed with ennui and boredom
because I do not know if life was an egg for me or already a chicken
whose paleontology I studied in some slaughterhouse on some heap
and made up crude names for its near-extinction. Yes, near extinction…

for we have domesticated life and the simulacra of domestication continues
you may say I too sometimes become manifestation of such a domestication
where culture restricts my sex to either so-called modesty or so-called openness

for the Venus De Milo is a nude without arms  and the Mona Lisa is always a
guesswork in progress. Caught between the Madonna and the Whore of Old
wondering which path I can take and knowing so forging my own takes more courage
it takes a certain kind of loyalty which is civil disobedience but there is Walden I can

retreat to feeling that there would be no taxation upon my sex and gender; even if I bide as a conscious gynandrous of sorts. I do not like to be bound as bondage portraits nor fixed as a saint. I want a messy me; getting tired of being a pendulous predictable.▬

late night interruptive prosaic sounds like prozac don’t it

I get sick many times; late night philanderer of obscure matrices of thoughts
buoyant-dandy in the streets, gothic urban pavements, of my own creation
“own” here is a complicated word; I did not know I made them
involuntary chemicals and imagination spasms did. I am not sure
What needs to be done amongst them — I wrote the capital “W”
in the “what” right now as a serendipitous affair — it was a shift of my sick-at-the-moment
fingers that accidentally caused me to do so — meaning there are unconscious lisps in me
glad my fingers are fluidly perfect in their imperfection. It took me like 3 hours or more to write this because I was interrupted, by Youtube, reading and other conversations — and cognition and cogitation — persuasive, that word I got from Kendrick Lamar’s “Money Trees” . I am a mosaic on many integrations and I integrate too — in cyberspace, physical spatial syntax, my tongue quivers, my breath vibrates — I roar with my being. Sick but not defeated.—

without the drink

 

trickling down, a droplet of absurdity
parenthesis entity — that is me
I am a creature sublime to oddities
artefacts can behold me and I beholden
the seas of chaos, calamity and serenity;

surprised aren’t you when my mouth glides
on tongue and I produce a kiss of words
in sobriety, I mated with soberness and it was
sombre, there is a seriousness in the sexiness
of some abstinence and some less inhibitions (a hybrid)
I am caught in tongues, who are not carcera to cheeks

it feels in the midst of conversations I am the phantom
I do not glow with the iridescence of being high
yet I am a novelty of loosened limbs and tongue
without the bottle — I am still an engaged firefly of sorts

trying to talk to everyone … —

survival via paragraphs.—

How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.

But who is willing to understand?

Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.

I know I am no poetry in motion.

That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard?  — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—

confessions (ii)

Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool.

Well, today I talked to the cherry redhead. She seemed to reciprocate my conversation. My flatmates are becoming responsive too. I guess I needed time. I am not saying that I blew them away or impressed them. But one of them thought it was okay to feed me a raspberry with her own hand in my mouth. The gesture was so caring and thoughtful. It brings tears. Right now. Another shared her dinner with me. You know I am just really happy because it is really pleasing to have have that really.

I guess I was really interested in Cherry (I will call the redheaded girl that). Cherry seems to be really thin. Like she has no weight. Compared to me who packs extra pounds. Cherry has immaculate white skin. She wore a jacket today, a black blouse which has t-shirt sleeves and is not willowy but cut midriff, I saw the accentuation of her bones and her tiny waist. Her long legs and hip to half-knee length green skirt skirted around my head as brilliant aesthetics. The cold did not bother her waifish frame. My fats are stored but tickled by the breeze. Her resistance and buoyancy to the cold made me so impressed. Cherry has a sweet tone too. She seems shy but attentive. The problem is I guess we are all shy. I wanna talk to Cherry more as her research is on gender and all about the fluidities and fixities of gendered spaces, or so she talks on. Which is impressive. I wanna know more people on campus.

The funny thing is that the guy who seems aloof of me still seemed aloof of me today. Like it is his intention to avoid me and I decided that okay if that is what he wants sure. I mean, today he came into the foyer and acted like he didn’t know me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and then asked where I liked to which I casually replied. I do not appreciate behaviour like this. I do not know is it something I did or said. Or, if he is also being shy but right now I cannot process this. I have no time and I have ample work that needs doing.

I know I am not special. I know I may lack a lot of basic skills. Also, compared to others I am not that intelligent. However, I am human. And I deserve basic human empathy and kindness. And so does everyone.

 

forgotton, write

I have forgotten how to write; I borrow from words of favourite authors or poets, online, offline, in print — I stalk, in a friendly way, the vocabulary emitted by friends in the ozone as my side of the world looks at needing patches of effusions on that crystalline-dark matter of a magically scientific field that puts us under some other feelings like the six degrees of separation; I lust after knowledge, under both the labels of the arcane and the modern: a suddenness makes me me feel unhappy, a preparation makes me unhappy.

I have forgotten how to write. So I look at wordpress pages, tumblr posts and reblogs and quotes to feed this appetite in me whose parenthesis seems to be only craving but non-sustainable; my eco-green planning turning to urbane shanty — I look for verdian pots in fanfiction oeuvres and cul-de-sacs of myself and others. I read old work of others, and new, revisit old haunts and seem to find new. I write fanfiction myself because a novel is not for me now though a fanfiction with my own ideas is writing especially if the story of the original is filled with ambiguity (fanfiction on all genres, shows, formats is writing even if it’s 50 shades of practice).

I have forgotten how to write. That is poem seems so bad. I am sorry if I am not witty. But I have never truly boasted intelligence unless it be boasted for me. And all the mathematicians and physics majors and physicians and doctors and lawyers and engineers whose crafts matter more than mine I wonder how in that quantum googolplex do my profession really counts? To the modern mind I may be dumb and pretty obsolete like a cartographer sailing seas using the stars when there are radio shacks and lighthouses on a whimsy. Yet I cannot be a cartographer for the moon, for that would probably be a cartographer for billetdeaux.

I have forgotten how to write. Yet I imagine faces of the moon as one large phasic typewriter. And somewhere along Mars neophyte water sprites may be becoming molecules for new, imaginary oceans.▬

Perhaps, I have forgotten how to write…▬

what I am feeling like right now + maybe this won’t be me 5 years from now, I am hopeful

sometimes I wondered if I lived a life or a margin in some ideological footnote
a mundane little hum that could be erased by the dust that is at the corners
of some sanguine hourglass where the glass knew me as some distant microbe
not too tough to taste but gelatinous enough to stick and not stray — I never think
I had a “I” defined enough by extremes I am sometimes akin to a medium, an equatorial
belly slivering off like some snail on a razor-blade and even then the blade’s blunt vortex
knew my slime and saliva enough to not prick my already molluscsal  body which became a
monolith of paranoia and weird-strange delusions and illusions; vapours in some steam-dye of
existence I never known or really pined for. The sexual for me, the breathing for me, the longing
at me — it’s pretty mundane. Human interactions fail me. I may be too eccentric and that does not
fascinate even in the Dickensian  way and Dickinson, Emily would probably be better at subtleties and
reclusivity than me. I am a portal to nowhere, even black holes may avoid me. I do not think I could bend
light and gravity like that rather I make it feel like it was falling, as though one was in sleep, only to wake-up
concrete in lying down but not so vigilant enough to stand better after that encounter; a purgatory between living and
a something that has no name but really feels like levity got some bastards trying to pick me apart: I am sad not ungrateful.
I have my health I suppose, could be pounds less and fitter yet maybe I am just a boredom coin or some coin of old and new

playing in a faraway fertile jukebox that no one can hear except some cosy stars distant in length and breadth but too are dreaming.▬

1st Eid without my Father

from Eid to Eden — I nurtured a song that was both a vigil, an explosion of prayers like
stardusts and moon-crescent globes all appearing in a wave, in a cool yet warm succulent slice
— this is the first Ramadan where I fasted and feasted without my familial Father; always spearheading
the sojourn of the ordinary and splendid like a perfect kaleidoscope; dancing and twirling more lucid and sane
than celluloid crackers but knowing great Western films and histories of Bengal and its cinematic prose, like tongue-buds ready to
erupt in flavours. The crescent moon are the lashes of a sigh I know that  the orb around is a miniature of my eye. I love you Abbu —
I will miss you till I know death maybe then you will be there helping me know the prose of my own last sigh.▬