Coy Lips; fictionic

We begin our story at a small school in a city in South Asia that may be South Asian in geography but has a geography a bit akin to a meshing. The school has a Baroch posture of mass geometric shapes that undulate and at times continue in some postmodernistic, a bit futuristic sway.

Akram is a boy of about ten at this time; that’s how he is remembering it, for a “now” is actually when he is seventeen. His eyes are a bit honeyed, not fully black or brown or that terrestrial mixture. His hair is a wavy of both hellenic and middle-eastern origins. His skin is a facsimile of brown and white: fax for it seems as though someone expertly delved in wax and some caramel-chocolate. Of course as a child his eyes looked larger and his grin a bit cherub-like. Cherub-like grins in childhood do have a tendency of seeming a bit hesitant in adolescence or adulthood.

The boy is a bit quiet. Lips are pursed at times. His worse subjects are history and grammars (both English and his vernacular) and his bests are actually literature and mathematics and science. His mother was told that he excelled in geography but that his drawing was not so great. Art was another subject he despised because he did not understand colours that well or shading but just preferred to well make lines which were also crooked.

Like crooked smiles of either wickedness or hesitation Akram was caught by the older year five person and soon kissed. It wasn’t a girl. Not that he would be not pissed if it was a girl. He didn’t like girls. Not most girls. Girls his age giggled and teased and then at times looked and stared a bit more fiercely at boys or made faces like them. The twelve year old boy who kissed him was not so rowdy though he had a reputation of getting in some fights that happened with certain classmates of other sections.

It was not so lingering but it was hard and a bit amateurish but the emotions were real. Very real. And he didn’t know what they were. To that young boy love was effervescent but not rushed intense. The older boy’s name was Fazi and he looked him straight in the eye after the kiss. It was a bit too intentional as though he didn’t want to look afraid.

“I like you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Like a girl.” Akram tried to make sense. To him girls can like girls and boys but boys only liked other boys to fight and liked girls for only kissing. At that time he thought that.
“I guess, but I can like you like that.”
“But I don’t have a pussy.” Akram did not know the proper term was “vagina” he thought the name meant that something whiskers as cat-face was something girls got when they were older.
“I don’t think that’s an issue.”
“Will you kiss me again?”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it a bad kiss?”
“Is there a bad and good kiss?”
“Well, you shouldn’t let grown-up strangers kiss you that’s bad.”
“Oh, yeah.”

Akram nodding encouraged Fazi a bit so he kissed him again. Then looked at Akram. Akram seemed not too fazed by it anymore and nodded. Fazi kissed him again in that almost empty corridor. A janitor was lazily drowsy and didn’t care at all.

Seventeen year old Akram looks as Fazi as a friend. An older, cool friend. Fazi doesn’t therein lies a problem. When Akram allows Fazi to makeout with him it is mostly because he is bored and because he feels frustrated. Fazi knows their thing is not a relationship but he wants it badly to be one. He isn’t crazy about anyone as he is with Akram. As a kid he has been. Akram had gently tried to sever ties with them a couple of times. It has backfired a bit. Fazi was a bit more persistent and a bit too emotional prone to tantrums and outbursts but also that sly logic methodology of saying “let’s just be you got no one else” or “come on it’s not that much of a bad feeling right?” and Akram doesn’t know how to answer. At times he just says that he likes girls and wants to have a girlfriend to which Fazi laughs.

There was a time he was trying and Fazi had successfully sabotaged him getting a girlfriend. Akram was a bit timid. Was a bit introverted and at times too complacent so he didn’t always complain. Some of those girls were more people he thought he could bond with but realizing maybe she shouldn’t. But Mira was a different case. The young woman was four years older than Akram and two years older than Fazi. Mira was one of the reasons the so-called timid guy took on an older male (same-height) with more defined muscles at the time. Akram was a bit chubby at seventeen. Fazi had kissed Mira and had at one point successfully made her his girlfriend. It was, in his eyes, a test to show how “dubious” Mira was. Yet the case was that Mira had though Fazi was growing to like her and Akram had stayed quiet for he was shy.

It was that time that Akram took  a stand to ignore Fazi. Fazi was adamant to stay with him but after some scuffles (which Fazi tried to alleviate sometimes by kissing) it was apparent that Akram and he were through.

Seeing Akram after all these years made Fazi’s heart leap. What was it that leaped really at times he could not tell…as in his heart leaped but something else. He had never really explained to Akram why he had loved him and ironically Akram had accepted that love without much probing or question. They have never had sex. They had however done some other things (mostly insinuated by Fazi). Akram was getting married to Mira. He was thirty-two years old and Fazi was thirty-four. Fazi has had only casual sex with people these days: both sexes. Yet, he had recently started seriously dating a person called Nibhay, who was the a year younger than him and had moved out to stay in the city with Fazi because he preferred him and loved him (stating that he exclusively loved males).

Seeing Akram Fazi could not resist but kiss him. Amateurish and awkward. Like that first time. That is when Fazi shamefully admitted to himself how wonderfully unrequited this was, without redamancy. It did not censure affection, maybe allowed sexuality but it was not the love he had wanted. Akram allowed that kiss; participated in it. As a liberation. All those years ago he participated to understand the same wave encaptured it now. For Fazi it was a good goodbye to a something that had no working or destiny. For Akram it was an end of an age of confused wanting and frustrations and feeling his wishes neglected. It was a complacency coming to an end. Both were cleansing out a selfish knot that was binding them.

Soon they raised their cups of lassi for a toast. Lingering on lips was the coyness of foams gone and foams to come.▬

 *Authors note: When I write fictional pieces I will label them as “fictionic” from now on 🙂

Celibacy

Standing adamantly by a decision is not really always callous. He turns. I rotate. He returns. I learn a revolution.  I don’t have much to expect yet I think he prefers me to expect things and that somewhat sags. After a dispute we make love. Just a crooked bandaid. I had vowed chastity. Even after the first couple of times I had stayed celibate for many years. However, this love brings out these in me. I do not like breaking my vows. Chastity or etcetera.  I don’t see him so sad. Whatever decisions he takes he seems pretty unrepentent or even non-confused about them. I almost feel a tip on my tongue. Is it Eurocentric? A White man’s non-burden.

Our mouths kiss. Our hearts do not. They run on parallel mathematics.

I am not coded like him. Nowadays, the gypsies are the rich, unconcerned. You cannot leave behind boredom if it is in a classroom. I cannot talk to him much. After he caressed my breast and my slightly toned thighs and I scartched slightly his skinny, rigid ones.

“Meghna, let’s elope.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want to finish my studies; have a career.”

“It’s so cliche.”

“It helps with the food department.”

“And I thought you liked marriage.”

I looked upset, all of a sudden, “What made you think that?”

“I just felt…it.”

We are quiet. It’s more quiet than mortal death.

“I know, Meghna, we come from different cultures.”

“I am not a different culture. I am a different person. Than you.” I stressed it heavily. I stress it as if it was now and never.

“Meghna, is it because I am White?”

I thought about it. Yes. It was. But it wasn’t so because it wasn’t. It was a Yes and it was a No. His Whiteness was not what mattered. It only mattered here. Because he could get away with running away. I am not White. I am of the migrant body. If I run away. I will always be a runaway. Unable to perform and unable to settle and unable to — Ooff! I was not so confident that me running away would be so fruitful to me.  Things are already here for him. For me it was starting. I don’t want to ruin it.

“Not really.” I carefully addressed, “It’s because you are rich and White and male. And I am just another so-called Brown immigrant. I have already been dispossessed and you are already possessed. Do you understand?”

Then he grunted, “You are talking fucking crap.” Then he got up, “You are muddling too much in those weak sciences.”

‘I am being honest Calvin.”

“Yeah right.”

I rose a bit too.

But then he got out of bed. I saw an ultimatum.

“I am leaving; probably tonight.”

“I understand.”

“You coming?”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“…”

“You are just some lay anyway.”

“I know we wouldnt end up together. You don’t understand and you are stuck in your own way of thinking.”

“I am leaving. Not Listening to this crappy shit.”

What I talked about earlier

 

Well, I mentioned that I was fat. And about fetishism. No, I was not only focusing on fat fetishism; that would be aa very limited approach to fetishism which is ironic because even though fetishism minimizes the diversity of its persecution is not limited. I use persecution because most fetishes do persecute and cloy and reduce people into othered objects. Sure,  we love others for their myriads of qualities which we may not see in ourselves but objectifying them solely for those traits is treating them lesser for who they are.

I am not only my fat. But my fat is related to a chain of other things like my health and that is why it cannot be ignored. My appearance may look better if I was thinner but that is not only the main issue. Some people look really cute with a little fat but being anorexic looking or too fat do not work with most people I know and see.

Does that make them less beautiful? Obviously not.

Does that them less healthy? Probably so.

Also, I am fat because I am depressed and I hope that I get out of it.  Beauty is so an umbrella term that figure is but just one part of it, personality and intelligence couple with empathy are other parts that may combine to illustrate the term beautiful. I am talking mainly about how I had gained weight as a delusional thought that eating much will eat up the mundane hours. I know how incorrect that it. Will I instantly change? There is a 0% in the horizon I see for that happening. But will it help me break out of it? Well, maybe, so —- I know I have a problem and I know  pretty much why so I will work towards trying to break the eating curse down.

I hope Allah Almighty will Help me to accomplish it.

mocking bird

 

—– sings sweetly, tries to be heard even though they say  that you are not worth even the court’s time because your veracity cannot be ascertained —–  what! Why! What do you mean!? I am telling the truth! I am not at all lying about this! Trust me, please….what is the worth of your trust…. why am I even asking this question. … This feels wrong… very wrong…. why am I —- you are not famous nor an esteemed member of society… you got no talent —- how do you know—- you received no critic acclaim, nobody knows you… you are a third world by yourself… you are meant to be used like a laughing automaton and yes you were born to be exploited and broken. … you were raised to be killed like a genetic freak of nature…. you have no heritage you are but a simple pebble in the gold sands of gloss and jewels —– oh, well you are wrong;  you are the slaves and we are the masters even our bodies dead and minds torture our blood will paint your body’s canvas—- we are the dam, the fortress and the dress of bravery and love, we need no bit coin heritage nor a plastic spine to move us about we are the true emperors of this world for we live in flesh and blood and soul epiphanies and our music is not a gaudy nude but a gauzy vapor that rings out in the heavens! While you name your world divisions we have embraced to form the arc that cradles the vast intelligences and endeavors that we may receive from our God…. When the hill of monetary cataclysm gets destroyed our mountain will rise for we will be raised to the peak of all zenith… we will rise._—–

sometimes yelling

because I am in pain; in sadness, I want to pray for forgiveness, for happiness
but I am too lethargic to do anything and the pain settles like a fine film on a window pane
prying my sanity and my choiced insanity to bits and I wonder “God, am I a fucking little bitchy dick?”

why is it that I am now shying away from principles and commandments
why is idleness so fucking wicked? Why is it that this world following secular or otherwise
promotes that insanely dolled up plastic crash of impotence but then celebrates like a guffaw
some really non-realistic virility? I can’t stand this dichotomy so competent at incompetency
c’mon God let’s say a coffee and let’s figure this out — why are people so easy on death and so coarse on
living? I mean wasn’t living it up what was hedonism about even though it’s origins were not about just
partying but the urbanite decides hey why not just have a bash after a 9 to 5 coffin shift and just go at it?

God, Oh God, I am blue as a breathless balloon but I want to be blue as the sky, as the waters that surrounds the meadows
and reflects the skies and cushions rocks and leaves and all that nature full off vintage and techno RGB fingerprints — but this
world just pulls up and decides to do a head bang at you listening to disenchanted amateur metal —- I wonder why?

And I know I should be praying, sorry for the pause, but God I am missing You and hope that You write back soon to my heart
and I know You probably are even as I write this down now and maybe, me writing this is You helping me out but I am so tired.
Can you hold me as I fall asleep? I am telling you feeling you next to me will really clear my cranium and soul a little, thanks, much,
appreciate._▬

In the night

under the sheets
knowing my friends
won’t call me today
or maybe not tomorrow
(or, if they do it’s rare)
I just lose my, lose my, lose my, lose my-self
start doodling out my thoughts in abstract mass
and I think that’s when you ring my door bell softly
hoping to come in, stay clean, say anything
but I just feel too secure
to let in a prior boo-boo
and it’s safe to assume that you might try again
but you leave again
with non of my plans ever being disturbed._—

Your heart was once your friend

You are saddened by an amber frost
it froths and spins a lot in a dash
and putting forth a night petal
you wanted to see colours come out of it

It, that it, that was once your pal in arms
your comrade to sign off
instant message and massage the bones
you are confused
because it hurts now and sometimes skyrockets
into some fast, hazy lane
philological, psychological becoming so detrimental
and you say saying it out loud that I don’t wanna hurt
this mental play exhibits dirt and dearth and death of reason comes along
hand in hand

my body needs a friend not a fuck
I am trying to hurt less now
but my heart won’t let me
reminds me at intervals
how lonely I look
as I pass mirrors
with only my shadow to assist
the definition that I exist
it’s like a double bed with a bone in between
crowding the lungs,  my heart can’t breathe
harken it’s broken sigh and a soft cry that I despise

I am not being moody I just want to be loved
don’t you?

selfish crash of a being you doped up high on affection
so your narcotics deny my satisfaction
I want to walk around and scream and yell in an open grassland near a beach
that’s my love — love that I treasure — I crave it on my lips not sealed only with a dainty kiss — hear the mellows and bellows of the twinging-tinging blades of grass — do they dance only for an opal when ether can be scanned into a ring around the middle, my rib cage needs that fleshy jewel

my love is yet to be realized._▬

the gripping

You are bound to me in little hyphens

And the terrible odyssey of your clothes coming off

I mean that fabric that encases you

Warm mouthed kiss turned into a firefly gamble

And the ether of recognition planted a serenade

Caught I’m the dubious nature of vices you hurt yourself

Made angst your poetry;masochism your pillar of truth

Because without pain there is only a levity realitYou

Boredom betrays your reality so you want to punish it

By punishing yourself; because you must be boring too

To welcome thus right? Don’t be hasty to judge, even yourself

You are more than a vice, more than aproblem instigator

Remember love, especially for yourself._-

Don’t trust —

 

— who act as they know everything; but when the delivery arrives
never arrives for you, muddled bones and sausage tongued
barely defensive but defensive on the prowl — telling you they are better
in so many ways and telling you that they deserve better
but would not wish the same for you; patterning an apology
yet hierarchical on the sorries as if you pushed them for this

don’t be quiet on this sodomy of your soul
front or back the choots did this because they think they are
yes, better at being non-human. _▬

sometimes, these days —

 

— can feel my heart beating really slowly;
following the thump, thumpity thump
of a casual heartbreak — yes, the fairystory could not be there.
The so called friends don’t always be there within the afforded sets
made imaginary enemies of my soul and declared war

where hast thou gone?
are you lost?
in some impious grave woodland
tethered to the moss — to the rocks —
do you hear me bellow and moan ~
a ravaged body by the elements
wood and artificial metal; plastic poisoning :://\//
how can someone tell you leave?
when your heart’s been staying  ????++??
if some malignant cell had burst
could I not cry,  ?
while you vigorously fuck me with a virus
and stay fucked by a disease
am I too low to be here
too high to be angry at
there was no violence
but the decay was unnatural
but it was not preternatural in the traditional sense
yet preternature tended to it with a caustic blow
and I have been hit so soon; breaking apart
but I don’t always cure my fate
somethings’ learning here

maybe, this is a viral shot to incubate an antibody
from people who think sorrows are only their own
and pushing aside others as doors
only lead to “happiness” to them
to say I am not withered would be lie blatant
to say I am not strong to endure and empath enough to care
would be truth simplified. _▬