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.—

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.▬


learning about the syntax, the basic units of affection
pitch perfect  from the beginning of beginnings
you are one of my root languages
we adhere to a shared topography

learning about shadows and silhouettes from you
the inner light they radiate; the aura of things blended in darkness
non-sequestered from good: a vocabulary esoteric but also mainstream
calling you “Dad” is a populist thing — how funny it is, how ironic, that words
can marginalise, limit and go beyond the very anatomy of their morphologies…

you are Dad-fixed, a biological marker, a genetic code that won’t be adverbed away,
a phenotype inheritance; a structural will you weaved subconsciously into my bones and I
did so too…we are like a chess board incomplete with each other…

and maybe the theatre of sky and the amphitheatre of the soil cannot encompass you
because I cannot always encompass you; we are both a wind we breathed and exhaled,
inhaled again like a mountain ridge path. I know that what we had is irreplaceable because it is
a womb participation; you did carry me for nine months by constantly caring about Mom.

and this ribcage will have a bird that sings; a song so plainly beautiful, for it is you and me
Father and  Daughter always and I don’t think a bird like that will stop singing, anytime soon
we will have our oceans and our swimming in them, we will have our sunset afternoons, drinking
tea in them and knowing that warmth is always catalysed by warm company. As you once spoke:
” A candle doesn’t lose its fire by lighting  up another.”

and I wonder which constellations you have lit up, lightened up and now also light in
this inward astronomical that you also know me in, lit up in me with paternal, pure, parental
love. I know how to love also from you. Love is a dedication. Love is both the spine, tail and the brain
with the heart; I cannot repay you for such vowels…

— I love you Abbu



The companion piece with Mari Sanchez Cayuso’s “Consonants“. Both are poems grieving our Fathers and showing our love to them. My Abbu passed away on the 24th, February, 2015 at around 5.00-5.30pm. I miss him every single day. I love you Abbu very much. May Allah Almighty always make you happy.

fighting and fight

tiddles of my expectations; ruptured like glass within glass, an imploding babushka-vortex
teeming is my rhythm of depression, like a knife that knows butter, knows the meat
sabotages the flesh, the artery, the blinking electrical impulses of a thing it corners as refuse
— it’s  my heart you bloody, selfish cancerous tumour that looks like an organic part of me
who refuses to shelter and instead makes bridges by my splintered bones; you capsized me
tore me from limb to node yet you refuse my simple, basic right to speak…you will now taste
my armageddon you tattered porcelain who preaches facetious causes I will cause you writhe
and rattle as the serpent you are — your apocalypse is not only salvation; I will know my sanctum
pure when you are purged from the altars of my consciousnesses;  my soul’s cathedral will know chimes.▬

Of hypocrisies

Have you  ever stared down the barrel of hypocrisy?

I supposed I have on many occasions. It is not an easy thing to digest let alone stand but tolerance and patience can also be abused. I mean think of the mother/father, abusive, but easily retorts  to false claims of ownership, grandiloquent as they are,  on a child even an adult-child just because of biological or fostering equipments without much effort to be civil or even equivalence in the relationship.

Think about the mouth of a friend when she/he accuses you of unfriendly  conduct when for years you helped them carry their own weight as well as yours. Think how this friend easily counters  that the love you give them if you protest that their capacity for “friendship” is based on abuse and also unfair conducts aka exploitation of your feelings and efforts to retain a close bond.

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Hypocrisy is  the elimination of questioning questionable conduct. It is the ethos sans pathos; the pinnacle of gluttonous lust over emotion-analytic and it is the systemic abuse of all sacred foundations or dynamics that you have held dear in a belief that the act of responses will have a shared mutuality. Hypocrisy eliminates even basic expectation but allows the over-expectation of “needs” and wants but only on a one path street. It manufactures a cul-de-sac for you but a freeway for the oppressor. Hypocrisy makes sacrilege sacred and sacrilege the sacred thus it is a crime. Yet it can be subtle and indirect, and its narcissism can also be camouflaged under guises of “benefits”, “rights” and also “duty” — it makes indiscriminate allowances to offenses but calls into the stand the  opportunity  to  discriminate its indiscretions or carte blanche. Basically hypocrisy is the sinner’s ouroboros and the saint’s  coercive chastity belt.

All these metonymies and metaphors  of hypocrisy are meant to not beautify it but obviously show that it eventually drowns in its own excesses. No one can be made a fool for long and even the classical play’s fool shows signs of enlightenment. The truth is that hypocrisy weighs itself on the scales of sympathy and constructed traditions of respect where respect is due out of necessitated obligation without knowledge, wisdom or even any egalitarian values as in hegemonized ranks. It wears a monarch’s crown as birthright so it does not espouse meritocracy and renounces absolution for it believes itself absolute and requires no reason expect impulse/instinct to proceed into action.

Roland Barthes talks about  myth as language, as a second semiological system that obliterates meaning from language and moves serpentinely by using language or even symbols as powerplayed images to  elevate, relegate  or even remonstrate that which may have originally or even contextually mean something else.  Myth as language engenders new artificial meanings into things for Barthes so in this regard his definitions of modern myth, as he puts it, comes also from the overproduction of cliched rhetorics and amalgamates that into everyday interactions to hegemonize language/gestures as a means to incapacitate the masses or non-elitist echelons that are not in power.

Hypocrisy uses this technique to its full capacity. Hypocrisy has modern day myth as its babe, its bitch, its bastard progeny. It is not ashamed of this incestuous union rather like a misogynized Lilith it embraces its role as fucker, fucked and will fuck/be fucked in the long run by the power-hunger fetish. Hypocrisy blooms in the emotional blackmail and manipulation of others and takes into its chaotic/nihilistic gonads a structural, ejaculative display of labels. Meaning it will use the excuse of “friendship”. “parenthood”, “freedom” even “intelligence” and “emotions” to silence any debacle related to it.  It will wear capitalist clothes but have a self-serving agenda and parade as a totalitarian but also subscribe consumer/industrial dogma.  It eschews from self-analyses and critiques because it wants to be able to say that it its rights that are violated or  being viable but will not turn the other cheek or even espouse the same/similar rights for others. This also extends to how the right might be the basic humanitarian understanding of respecting boundaries of a person or even just allowing a person their own free space.

It is sad that hypocrisy is so undeniably a freer agent than justice for in a world where  excess materialism and consumerism are the heads that do not roll you can be sure the hypocrisy has a nice seat. In a world where individual selfish and false sense of entitlements reign we can see hypocrisy flirtatiously flamboyant keeping egalitarian empathies locked away in some festering ivory tower.

So when we do look at the barrel of hypocrisy most likely we won’t be shot immediately or ever but we will be coerced to gaze  in its abyss and have a hazy outline of the arsenal; it will arrest our personhood but will become a symbolic identity in its own position.

virtually pals

there is a nothingness between us; a waxen taxing affair
of where friendship was and never was — just mere interaction
when you waned me with your tears and waved me into a corner
I had sought your forgiveness trusting that maybe forgiveness was
all that was to be needed — forgetting that you had never understood
that if it was something I strained I never meant to and I never abused
never hurt your heart, your face, your eyes or any integral you —
realizing that you had never attached me to these but I am -was – just a flicker
of pixels amounted to an image that raced away in the rat race of virtual acquaintances.▬

insomnia B sides


it is always a feeling of redundancy; coupling are two cheeks
pressed on a digital page or rather an arcane yet archaic-revolutionary
tree flesh and I am wondering if I am sleeping in posterity with a handshake
plus mouth to moth resuscitation with “waking”. My mind is no longer
a blank; not an orgasmic leftover nor orgasmic pilgrimage in process
yet the innocence of sleep or the experience of dreams heavily eaten
yet no excess lipid taken — this feeling of a nourishing sleep has left me —

from some placebo dreams I drift awake; shot red eyed or white marrowed
and get cravings from an insolent and belligerent craving that posits somnambulism
as a dietary peregrination.

hopelessly attracted to sleep: unrequited my love is now by a philandering sand
so you forgot you were an awkward desert without me and now you are an oasis
of cognition that laps on and have you forgotten me as some roadside cafe that
has strong but cheap coffee?  — clean hotel sheets of blankets and cuddling am
I only a family of one nights or cellular nights juxtaposed by some odd morning
ritual but someone to coddle and listen to with a matched heartbeat? Sleep, I love
you, earnestly, being friends is important. Why do you mock me? What now you
think of me only as a Lolita and not temptress as an adult that you shied away from
my bosom and bum and think it ok? I am not Lolita nor am I Aphrodite or Galatea —
why be a cheap role when I can be the only original me and your original sin is that
you left me thinking that our bond was sanctuary  and somewhat sacred then you
introduced some shifts and kinky brief crap that couldn’t even consummate a tired
heart a monarch’s journey in its little steps.

your conquest is inevitable insomnia; you may be the object now of sleep but believe
me sleep tires of many things especially being a pushover and a doormat for your
chilly jokes and domestic violences where you claim to profess poetic promise but
you are just fucking with everyone as you are a lonely depression in motion and I hate
you due to your ogling and fetishes that only is you, you and you and that is just

I am tired now. I think I will go to sleep.

shapes of woman


in the pretext and pretense of a stare
gazes up, paraded on, like a sort
of assorted DNA vectoring packaged
and turn sour; plasticity and plastic
shiv darts of stares and shivering and
triggering from the ostensible practice —

— how do humans so discreetly, discretely possess the habit
of partition of the body? As a woman there is a heightened language
rampaging like a great quake and mortar frost and yet even the silences
are swords and pulleys and daggers and catapults but then it is decimated
to a vulgarity of petiteness , the small of her back, a inline curved inside of a
hip; rippling binary breasts — a ruin, a margin-space in which one is  situated,
jabbed and pixelated in body-morphs hardly able to yell in fear of corseted lungs!
And the cone of peticoats and the padding of stray bras. The empire and parliament
and grapevine and cities and meadows of vagina, clitoris and sensational walls that
have no immediate beginning and end is reduced to a limited scope of “hole”, “fingered
hole”, “fucked hole” and a weird confectionery name of “creampies” and “gaping” — was
there a shortage of sugar somewhere? It felt as though a wide atrium, arc, landscape,
individuality there — walked on by inhabitants was suddenly dropped like a odd
rocket and soon everything felt sterile and medicinal and atomically just vacant.

Her mouth was caught. She had began to speak a language of her own. She tripped on tongues
and the grainy fields of taste buds succulent and non-succinctly abiding into the throes of her
broad and screaming rib-cage. Accentuated its muscles with a glass of air and a whole bag, bags
of air and felt liberated. It was not cantankerous but music. She felt like the men at construction
who could be hard and soft at the same time and never told that they were eunuchs. It pained her
these silhouettes their animosity clicked and chipped in her heels as she attended the dinner with
the dying concaved grace of a swan feeling a snag of death that comes from fatigue and exhaustion.
Elsewhere a maid marveled at her dress and thought differently — she thought that this beauty could run
and breathe and smoke and chastise and scream and maul and jump and skip and dress nice wherever
she pleased and all she could do is be called a “maid” and be lesser than a woman who had breasts as her
not knowing its because of suspicious “non-symmetrical” body position, done firstly by breasts, that the
socialite and the maid were one and so they both wear glass slippers ready to break and put gnaws on
their feet. Cinderella was the maid who attended the ball. She was both princess and a worker. Glass heels
may break if you climb up high. That is why construction workers wear boots. Boots and harness. They can
spiral. They can be dads, money-making people, brothers and even amateur stamp collectors. A socialite
is always that and a maid is mostly that. Known only by the glass heals that they wear. Their coexistent
language find it hard to see each other. Because they cannot feel the vital need to undress and go running
in a pool to dive. They are submerged in some useless corners of fixed places.

Mentally ill women are equivalent to lepers. They are ostracized as soon as their neurosis detected. Those
of a masculine, male path are given lesser punishment and chances to override the possibilities of breakdown.
Males, having affairs, trysts even experimental sodomy and then with a cup of tea can watch all the pornography
to addle their minds. Their brains numbed, their erections pressed and pounded, they feel in masturbation a sense
of autonomous self and a societal paternity to help them rid them of blisters and sores. They have rooms in the
social laboratories of the world even if it be religiously or secularly frowned upon — a boy, a lad, doing what he does
it’s no star struck anxiety. It’ll tame by all the necessary outings and goings between home-life and street-walking-life.
Though there are dangers he is told, encourage that is manhood is strong, in mind and body and can overcome. Hysterically
Historically — female who do not smile 24/7th are a plague, those who smile 24/7th are a plague. Those who cry in unhappiness
should be sent in sanitoriums and kept there to die. Desperation leads to coerced fitful spasms of something that becomes a crude
line attempt at sex or even affection and even their participation makes them “sluts” and “teases” and “bitches” and “slags” and
much much more. If she is too quiet she is boring; but if she is talkative she is a pest. Pornography shows women in positions
that made them scratch their head for last time a test made that look and feel pretty painful. Constructed fantasies that aren’t
her own make her blitzy and she doesn’t know what pleasure is. Just scraps and scrapes at some corridors running just to
get a climax nor else the erection won’t go down. Her morning erection feels painful, knocks out sleep but she still gotta put
out breakfast. And of course if she wants to do anything out of the ordinary people will type her off, other women will too
there are no porn magazines, no gaming tournaments and no tea-party rock for her. In extended isolation, of knowing there
are existing bodies who wouldn’t give a rat about her body she loses it! Screams it! Pounds the walls! — yeah they called
the cops! In shackles and tagged as maddie she is leftover of some system gone bad. No one asks why a person would do

For a woman is usually called a woman first, a person later.  There is something asymmetrically true about a woman even in
her symmetrical decline to madness and grief….— it is manifested strength in different dimensional chronologies that are not
always the linear lisps of boredom.

Woman, like man and yet kept distanced by some added differences. But why is that when you converse with them over cups
of tea you feel that in your male reflection she had added tea-leaves that show you yours as well as her own?▬