accismus

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A slice of disturbia in between your sandwich.

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  • accismus 4w

    What filth is this, honourable mistress?
    Look at you laugh, oh, how shameless!

    @nightwriter_i @allbymyself

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    Alteration

    Duncan, were you a just king yet,
    When Macbeth pierced your sweet little heart?
    The capital in your country is saltier
    than the one in America or a yada-yada land.
    Let's loop on the epilogue of lesser evil,
    and greater evil while the world slowly,
    slowly picks its nose and sticks it under a table.
    The diamond shines on his hand
    while he smacks the petite butt of a waitress,
    Duncan perhaps says, "When you are a rich pervert,
    Harassment is just seduction eh!"

    The lady in the house, the fourth virago,
    Power in, power out, witching the curtain away,
    Come o, Come sire, with a blister under your shoe,
    And a dagger, a playful metal to slit a throat.
    "What a femme fatale", says Macbeth, anticipating,
    He asks, " May I kill with a machete?"
    She says, "Fool, did no one teach you then,
    that size does not matter, take, take a dagger!"
    Slide through and be the brand new oppressor.
    Finger in, Finger out, suave puny game on silk,
    "Dick in, dick out, our son shall rule the old crowd.
    Shoo now, scurry through, a ball then; me and you."

    Queen Macbeth, why do you wash your hefty hands?
    Queen Macbeth, washing the blood away, tch-tch!
    "No you fool, it's the pandemic, an autocratic virus,
    Watch some news for Satan's sake, will you?"
    Macbeth rotates his eyes, plays chess with Duncan's head, at least, he was one heck of a playmate.
    They played and played, with a citizen and another,
    Uprooted their dollhouse, undressed their daughter.
    "War crimes you say, now, what on earth are they?"
    Shakespeare rolls his dice and his two eyes,
    Maybe, Macbeth's porter could have stabbed Duncan better!

    ©accismus

  • accismus 7w

    Bubbles of knowledge that burst and goo spurts out!

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    Sting in the tail

    Picasso is painting the brothel of Avignon.
    Someone is squirting in 'Sonagachi'.
    Or is she?
    Sisyphus rolls stones through the streets where vendors are now setting up their shops.
    Men who have fucked already will come and sip tea, sip tea, sip tea.
    New men will knock.
    A child comes running and announces,
    "Someone dropped their erection in the hallway!"
    His ma pulls him by the ear.
    All is indifferent.
    They sip tea, sip tea.

    Respected wives of familiar men come out to buy tea leaves, perhaps a bangle or two.
    They walk past the infamous street.
    They overhear a prostitute.
    She is saying, "I am so tired of sneezing and sex, flies and fantasies that my areola keeps disappearing!"
    Sisyphus passes her by, nodding.
    I laugh.
    She rolls her eyes and murmurs,
    "Intellectuals and their amusements,
    like farts."
    I laugh, laugh innocently.

    Summer has been desperate like the bitch that scratches her skin then and now.
    She gropes the window panes of the brothel as he repeats a routine, disfiguring her further!
    Someone is squirting in 'Sonagachi'.
    Respected wives uphold their umbrellas as they walk beneath the same, ancient window.
    What if the liquid flows down her thighs, further down and right on their heads?
    Oh! The wicked droplets of sexuality and HIV.
    What if they at once recognise the smell, the thickness, the vulnerability and whisper,
    "Ah! My husband."?
    Picasso, does he see?

    ©accismus

  • accismus 9w

    Ward number 13.

    For eleven and a half years,
    I have lived alone in an apartment,
    a square which is round,
    as round as a hollow in the wall.
    I have petted a cat all along.
    A hungry black cat.
    Our mother feeds us.
    She walks towards me,
    A bowl in her trembling hands,
    a bowl of pills.
    Black, lilac and violet.
    I name my medicines,
    Amanda, Alisha and Hue.
    I eat them later.

    For eleven and a half years,
    I have lived almost alone in an apartment,
    except for my cat.
    My cat has two voices,
    one that speaks to the wall,
    and another that speaks to the ceiling.
    Mother hanged my last cat.
    That hazel cat didn't know
    to distinguish voices.

    For eleven and a half years,
    it has rained when the wall spoke to me.
    The leaves fell when I drew on the walls.
    It snowed when a drop of saliva
    trickled down my chin, gracefully.
    Once, I wanted to be a painter.
    Then, I fall out of the world,
    into an apartment where I live alone now.
    Perhaps, it's a zoo.
    The strangers expect me to do a trick.
    A flip and a flop.
    They either glorify or criticise.
    I am their absurd God of entertainment,
    easy to be laughed at,
    easier to sympathise.

    When I was braver, I said,
    "For eleven years, I have heard my cat purring, I have seen pills floating in a gush of air. Do you know the rain is purple?"
    Someone would tie me to a sad steel.
    The doctors exclaimed, "What cat?"
    The doctors whispered, "Schizophrenia!"

    Perhaps, it is what it is.
    Mother Schizophrenia and her children.

    ©accismus

  • accismus 9w

    Hiccups

    I think the most specific kind of betrayal is the one that was never intended yet always intended, like the hunter knows he will hunt, exactly what species he might not know but the prey he knows. So, he chooses randomly, goes on in disguise, snaps the neck and it's done, called for!

    Yes, I was talking about relationships, the 'casual' ones.

    ©accismus

  • accismus 10w

    আমি আজকাল ভালো আছি!

    @nightwriter_i @allbymyself

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    Blood platelets and other things

    The fever climbs up,
    up the overrated human faces
    like dead beat poetry
    in a spoonful of puffed rice.
    Metaphors, cliches and similia line up,
    there are tougher catches,
    like that zeugma in a rape of a lock.
    103°F and I am conversing
    with three alter egos in different time zones.
    I taste of a hospital already.
    Send me to one, too.
    A psychiatric unit.
    Am I romanticising?
    Oh boy! I wish I could.
    104°F but the thermometer is moody,
    it wants to give me a scare.
    The thermometer doesn't know though,
    Consciousness is trepidation.

    The woman, the old one next to me tries to talk,
    I, in my postmodern apathy and aftereffect of placid injections look at her as if she were some unicorn, too pink for my range, too delicate that I may punch that face.
    But then, whose face?
    Her son never visits her.
    Perhaps, I don't despise her.
    I despise her tragedy.

    Blood drips on the overused trousers from the overused channels of my underused hands.
    Comprehension, the agony of man or the non-binary peculiar colour palette with a turquoise head, an eye-candy for a grey ward.
    The air is scanty inside the mosquito net.
    The mosquito has done the dead.
    I wake up with malaria and poetic inspiration in Darjeeling.
    Suddenly, the sister in the ward says, "Bed No. 8, go take a bath."

    I walk to the bathroom with woobly legs,
    jaundice inside my toe nails.
    The other day I saw on someone's regular 'Whatsapp' status that an old man was beating his bucket hard on the September's concrete.
    People were taping that, cheering on.
    He kept saying, "This doesn't break, this sells."
    Why is a living worth a joke on a status?
    If I faint and hit my head on one of these buckets and my head breaks, I will die with the exact memory of humanity~
    That, my friend, will be a memory of inhumanity.


    I know my friends will come see me during the interval of this film.
    Her son will not because he thinks any disease of the vagina is because the woman stepped out the whore house.
    I boil.
    She eats her porridge better than mine.
    I lack appetite.
    She adjusts my mosquito net.
    Resilience, I hate the guts of this woman.
    She complains but lives.

    When they bring me home,
    my privilege jumps traffic lights.
    Kolkata is raining, sweating like a pig,
    Nah, too raw for the artist eh?
    I do not have sympathy for mothers,
    or sisters,
    or wardens,
    or gardeners in whore houses,
    or in the dingy toilets of hospital wards,
    because I write poetry and name it 'Chloroquine'.
    They simply gulp it with water.

    Chloroquine, no political correctness and Kolkata,
    huge dumps that will hurt,
    like constipation.
    And, it must hurt you right where it should.

    ©accismus

  • accismus 18w

    Here sire, two glasses of armchair activism.
    Cheers! If we pretend it doesn't happen, then it doesn't happen.

    @nightwriter_i @allbymyself

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    Offense, taken.

    The guilt, a maiden sews her virginity in place and sits on a rocking chair.
    They ask her, "Guilty much?"
    She nods.
    What's virginity altogether?
    A thin tissue, perhaps anatomically that held together morse codes and wars because you cannot spell the name of the bed or its owner or that you liked being a filthy little girl.
    So, what's virginity then?
    Oh! For a rat's sake, an excuse for a tissue which will reject the plea of oestrogen and testosterone because the glory hole has to be protected.

    This other day, she called out to me and said, "Governments are changing but all I do is guard my virginity."
    35 seats more to the gentlemen who guard well, wear orange and pray to a strange God who wrapped Draupadi in a saree like the chef wraps the goat in a blanket of spices.
    Men, men started the first war for Independence, 1857, mind you!
    Yes, son a platoon of bloodshot eyes licked the cranky ears of colonisers because their cartridges were made of virgin cows and pigs and they didn't know which one they had tasted.
    That, my son, is not patriotism.
    That is when religion tickles you and you get tickled.
    Oh, look, there's a dead pig outside the mosque!
    She is not getting married today, there is of course a riot outside.

    Suddenly, she asks, "What about my virginity that I have guarded so well?"
    They replied, "More grooms will walk in when the riots die down."

    March, May, October go by.
    She is married now.
    Her little daughter asks, "Is it so important, that virginity thing?"
    She says, "Oh yes, he likes it when it bleeds, outside temples, mosques and on bedsheets."
    Then, ma fed Razia two cubes of sugar.
    Swallow, Razia, swallow, the transparency of dirt!

    On her wedding day, ma asks, "Have you guarded well, my jaan?"
    Razia nods.
    Men she was taught to dodge,
    but women, women,
    them, women she fucked fierce.
    When they kissed her back she almost forgot that her uncle had been ostracized for eating pork or that later the butcher was burnt for selling meat.
    Some butchers went in the hands of her men,
    some in the hands of Draupadi's men.
    Yet, women she fucked fierce.
    Does it count?

    ©accismus

  • accismus 22w

    "His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity."
    ~Albert Camus.

    @allbymyself @nightwriter_i @kairos_

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    Fuck you Euphoria.

    Creativity says, "Discipline, I do not have the rent yet!"
    Discipline repeats, "Poop, clean, eat, sleep, earn and earn!"
    Creativity does not pay the rent fifth time in a row. Discipline bites her and she bleeds, dies.

    "How many pills did you swallow?" he asks.
    The girl says, "Fourteen, I think".
    Someone puts a hand inside, a violence in her throat and she pukes.
    After the eight, perhaps the ninth time, she knows it's her father.
    Her mirage of a mother is crying.
    Yet, another failed suicide attempt.
    What did you wear for the farce of a funeral?
    A bipolar T-shirt.
    Was she breaking down that night?
    No, on the contrary, the bed sheets were satisfied.
    She woke up two days later, vulnerable, giggling, desperate to perish again.
    In a fraction of a second, she wanted to eat a waffle and smoke a cheap cigarette.

    They asked, "Why?"
    She said, "Sometimes you want to poop in the middle of nowhere. You ask your driver to halt and run to a sequestered field. You run before you soil your pants. You run, you sweat and then you let go amidst the wilderness."
    They said, "What even!"
    She said, "I didn't want to soil my pants too."

    The psychiatrist didn't ask anything.
    He knew.
    He said, "Here have a cigarette. Your pills too."
    She said, "The mosaic's a heartbreak but my heart is not broken. You see, there's an energy, a mad-shit pandemonium in my body that does a backflip when I give up on life. I almost kill myself in happiness."
    He said, "Oh I know, a Fandango, a dance of the impulse."
    She asked, "What do we do now?"
    He said, "Go, read. Create. Let the madness feel like it's madness no more. If you can manage three meals a day, a simple roof, then it's enough aspiration for a struggling artist. If not from crippling trauma, you will die of pollution anyway."

    She stepped out and looked at the book.
    Camus smiled.
    She murmured, "Dang it! Maybe, I relate to Sisyphus."
    As she closed the door, the doctor said,
    "Do not forget your pills.
    In a month or two when you are off them,
    I will give you a new book, a new Sisyphus."

    She wore her absurd shoes and walked away.
    They asked, "Why?"
    She said, "Oh the usual, I was tired of rolling stones for an eternity."

    Death is a theater, plots change.
    You watch it, you watch it so intensely that you start acting in it.
    When you realise that you are an actor now,
    an amateur at that, duh, you freak out!

    ©accismus

  • accismus 23w

    "Wake me up, I'm fever dreaming
    And now I lose control, I'm fever dreaming
    Shake it out, it's just what I'm feeling
    And now I take control, I'm fever dreaming…"
    ~Of Monsters and Men (Alligator).

    @allbymyself @nightwriter_i #pod @club_antipoets

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    Tarantella

    I bought two doughnuts,
    circular universes but hollow on the inside,
    a black hole shoved in your arse!
    That's it, a reflection of me,
    dipped in bourgeoisie chocolate,
    a sticky semi-liquid and you eat one as you almost kill yourself, a dessert after the trial.

    Ding-a-dong!
    "Who's it on the door?"
    "Ah, Missy, it's your friend dearest from the high school, come on already!"
    "There's this concert in the middle of town, salty teenagers banging their heads off, getting off in the corner of the stage, and the lead, oh, the lead is a school dropout because he had dreams in his backpack!", says she, shaking, ecstatic!
    "Ah, the janitor in our school,
    he too dropped out because he had dreams,
    you know, they didn't praise him much!
    It is sad that our academia is such a snake that it swirls around you like your confidante,
    And lo! it has bitten you already and you are gasping for an antidote!"
    "Ah! I don't quite understand, are you coming or not? We can eat doughnuts."
    "Yeah, let me get my jacket. Mate, don't get a drunk guy in your trunk, they puke and borrow my cigarettes."
    "Fine, fine, what a crybaby!"

    Inside the concert, I lose track of my friend and later find her crouching in a corner with her ex, smooth.
    In the scarlet, I suddenly get possessed with an unholy amount of energy and bang my head with one penetrable thought, "yeah, God dammit, fall off, fall off my shoulder, make it a bloody anti-climax."
    After an hour when my body is exhausted, I crouch beside my friend.
    Drunk, she murmurs, "He has a new bitch. What even?"
    I laugh and say, "Aye, aye, yes since you are heartbroken and spitting on one entire gender, I can call it a night."
    "I don't understand you at all. What do you even say? You live in your personal hell. I feel sad for you and for myself. What a turn off! Am I not fucking pretty?" and she pukes.
    "I would have forgiven you even if you puked in my truck."
    I carry her home. Patricia, drooling and snoring fine!
    Suddenly, I feel happy.

    I drop her on my bed and slowly pass out in the couch.
    When I wake up, Patricia's gone.
    I am so offended that I proceed to the refrigerator only to find out that there are no doughnuts left.
    I scream. I scream till my voice dies a cruel death.
    "Why did the bitch eat my doughnuts?"
    Beside the junk machine is a note,
    "I was hungry babe."
    Babe? Fuck you! I upturn a dish in a fit and spill porridge all over the place.
    Then, I lay on it and cry.
    I get up and strangle myself.
    'Your house smells like death."
    I pass out with imprints on my neck, red imprints of fingers with which otherwise I create life, characters who try to kill themselves after a conventional night at a concert that claims to be unconventional.
    Fuck the lead who is your Messiah because he made it in life.
    What about the janitor who sings classical?
    Go dip your head in the toilet of status quo.

    When I wake up, the porridge has dried on my skin.
    I slap myself twice.
    "Where are your doughnuts?"
    I do not have the energy to kill myself anymore.
    I swallow a pill, my usual dosage of medication.
    For an hour, I weep.
    Then I get up and dance.

    ©accismus

  • accismus 25w

    "গির্জার ঘন্টায় মিলে যাওয়া দূরের আজান
    প্রতি আহ্বানে খোঁজা তোমার যোগ্য কোনও গান
    যে গানে শ্যামের সুর রাধিকার বিরহে মানায়
    খোদার কসম জান, আমি ভালোবেসেছি তোমায়...

    তোমাকেই বাজী ধরা বোকা প্রেমে যে অহংকার
    কানে কানে কেঁদে মরা ব্যর্থ হয়েছে অভিসার
    তোমায় খোঁজেছি তবু কী আদিম বাঁচার নেশায়
    খোদার কসম জান, আমি ভালোবেসেছি তোমায়...

    এখন আবার দেখা, আবার তোমার চোখে জল
    কত জন্মের চেনা, তুমি একই আছো অবিকল
    আয়নায় দেখো মুখ মহাকাল যেখানে ঘনায়
    খোদার কসম জান, আমি ভালোবেসেছি তোমায়..."
    -Kabir Suman

    #pod #writersnetwork @allbymyself @nightwriter_i

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    Alas!

    Does Prometheus know that the fire he stole and distributed is cheaper than the cigarettes I smoke?
    We often do not buy matches because we don't have change.
    Oh! Capitalism smirks at Prometheus.
    I do not remember my lover when I hitch a plot and calculate my losses.

    I sway like the pendulum, the wind my talisman, I sing and my voice quivers as the song hisses twice.
    The dimples of the song are not synced with the dimples that lay scattered on our faces yet we try.
    We try.
    My voice however does not break at the thought of the lover whom I could not hug in a pandemic when yet another dead body was plunged in the pie of purgatory which is too familiar and too alien, all at once yet alternatively.

    I touch the pink inertia of my body,
    a subtle peach, often darker.
    I feel like Narcissus's distant sister as I struggle to complete a deadline, a deadline of taking a shower in fifteen enlarged minutes.
    The clock is merely a tattered trail of smoke sipping down the lucid bodies of phantoms who play a game of cards against me and win because on certain afternoons the fifteen minutes blend into an hour,
    more and more.
    I do not utter my lover's name when I and my mother sing a lullaby for the evening till she snores while the breeze pops pills to set alright another row with Insomnia.

    I do not count my lover's moles like I count my money when I pay our milkman.
    I am so forgetful that I conclude maybe all that we have between us, the glances, the dances of feet, words and words and feet, maybe all that is a passing reference of a hormone or two that my body births.
    Aye, the lust, the tint of lips and leaves greying like an old couple in a corner of a cliché park but the couple is invisible for I see nothing but death.
    Here, a fallen teeth, there a severed limb.

    I change channels, a bra and Government. All trip over yellow dim banana pills on secluded streets when it rains like an angry prostitute who pees after holding a flow for half a day, you see the hoard of customers sweating out bizarre things. Eh! She pukes at the stink of testosterone. So, do I see my lover in the crowd? Where is he? Ah, not here either.

    I dress up randomly to honour a female masseur who once desired to massage my body with forsaken oil, animated, larger-than-life hands and a turquoise drape on my body, serene, isn't it? Compliments buzz around my ears like basic mosquitoes. I carelessly munch on a starter and smell the mutton.
    Eyes water. Ma asks, "Oi, what is it?"
    I say, "Nothing, nothing."
    Yes, love is like a half eaten Mutton Biryani that my lover could not eat last time because the rice had gone stale.

    ~Mithi

  • accismus 25w

    "जल रहे हैं जंगल और नदियाँ रो रही हैं धीरे-धीरे,
    लोग सड़कों पर हैं, दुनिया आपा खो रही है धीरे-धीरे,
    ना पड़ा फ़रक कभी जिन्हें, उन्हें भी पड़ रहा है धीरे-धीरे,
    जो पढ़ना चाहता है, वो भी लड़ रहा है धीरे-धीरे!

    शहर मचल रहे हैं, गुम हवाएँ हो रही हैं धीरे-धीरे,
    नफ़रतों के बीज दुनिया खुल के बो रही है धीरे-धीरे,
    ग़लत इरादों वाले बेनक़ाब हो रहे हैं धीरे-धीरे,
    ग़मों की रात में ख़ुशी के ख़ाब, वो सो रहे हैं धीरे-धीरे|"
    -Osho Jain.

    @allbymyself @nightwriter_i #pod #writersnetwork

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    A pseudo bride

    On a night like this, I like a precise kind of love, love that scratches and crackles, a raw love that melts on my naked inferiority, love that breaks and shakes while breaking, each piece a worm, an earthworm since they are lucid children of the soil. I crave a love that resists, love that resisted the hungry Government when it gobbled the fundamental rights, a love that teaches me resistance and fights with me for me.

    ©accismus