we had doi maach and burped blissful ignorance,as the flies then roamed, mocking our pretence, all we knew was being young.families lose things all the time,so grandma just laughed away when grandfather died,I keep losing my pens and hair ties.my legs still ache, even more in autumn and fear,my belly is full of fishes, alive and dead, yet ma says I'm never having enough water.I had to be a little more dead to be a fit funnier, I like the food spicy but not the gastritis,ma hates spicy and her gastritis.my house is louder than my mind, it barely sleeps.when a window opens to a window one can only feel small and the rain makes no difference.an upset stomach is better than an upset heart, but a chronically upset stomach and heart both is how mother would die.the flies on the floor, oblivious and telling, the phone lights up; doi maach is ready.
and when some girls,some daughters smell like sex,they also smell like war.When the whole family prays,Shifa stays outside the room.The family has a meal anytime Shifa sings in her room,a dinner to drown out the voices of war,breaths and frowned upon smells.Shifa looks pretty as she bends over the sink,thinks little Amina.Shifa pukes and she cleans,she pukes and she sings,she pukes and she bleeds.Shifa looks pretty as she dresses her wounds,think unknown uncles at the house,With thousands of strange bees stinging into her,Shifa steps out, is less of a pretty and more her,with lost home and stinging belly,leaves for a home.
The mother,as a young girl went to wars then at night, went to her room to sleep,a room with remnants of wars, with their own sheets.The mother, now a married woman,goes to wars and never returns.Her tongue and nails smell of war;must be why her husband never comes alongor takes her, she whispers years later.The grandma was a forgetful mother,she forgot to tell her daughters to be themselves, take as much space as galaxies,that they would always need love, that they can have so much love they become it, that once a mother; she cannot forget.No one taught and no one knew how to be a mother or how to stay or how to remember.The mother, now with kids as ordinary as wars,is trying to like them,while claiming she knows how to love,how to be a mother,how to stay.In her dreams, she is exhausted from so much running,she wakes up and by noon her daughter fights her as she teaches her to be a mother,some feet can't stop but they crave staying.The mother rinses wars off everywhere and becomes them.This house smells like poison,like rage of an angry man,the walls, the doors have become him.The window shows a closed window,on the other side are families, eating curries with hand, families eating together, families that don't want to kill each other in their prayers.A fixer mentality, the mother is always running,with knives, without heart.
আমি আজকাল ভালো আছি! @nightwriter_i @allbymyself
Blood platelets and other things
The fever climbs up, up the overrated human faceslike dead beat poetryin 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 already 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
Pardon the stop,for we are lost!
I am bad with directionsall around the distancesindiscriminately innate to the innuendos.I keep forgetting the places we have beenor the ways to pointwhen someone asks of my whereabouts. I can't seem to rememberthe vicinity of any roundaboutor its repercussions.It's only the hysteria I recallof a ripple in yoresearching for a shorehaving been departed from its genesis.©proper_noun
Post birthday realisations
I have turned 24 And there is no turning back to twenty three nowEven if I try, I don't want toThere had been so many messagesFrom lost contactsWho didn't know how to continue the conversation And I guess they deserve a fair windowThrough which I look at them And see them fidgeting And thinking what next to sayHow do you even say," I am sorry but this is all I have got besides the gap that resides between our lives now"I am detached from my own selfI see myself as another body living and functioning Is day two of 24 supposed to feel like a miss?Nobody who wished me yesterday has contacted me todayAnd perhaps that's why I hate birthdaysAll this limelight and nothing remains after a dayBut just broken light of fading sunset.Maa says nobody salutes a setting sunMaybe our birthdays are like that too.Setting suns, stories ending and beginning all at once Like magic candlesMy birthday cake had one.Twenty four feels like twenty three And twenty three feels like twenty twoAnd I feel like a child again who needs attention?My grandmother yesterday told me a new perspective of looking at my birthAnd I am quite astonished by itIt was the day my mother went through labour Just to let me come in a world I wasn't ready forBut then who is?I have turned twenty fourAnd it feels less special and more like a slapFrom a teacher who thinks I am not paying attentionBut nobody is telling me where to lookOr what to feelExhausted?Or do I need to spice up my life with this new shade of lipstick that I wearAnd go on in the worldBarefoot,With a pair of rosesAnd gift them to someone who has never received a flowerShould I start with myself?I have no way to know what to do with this number24But I did put my feet in river waterAnd saw it flow at peace I hope to be at peace somedayToday I am notToday I am thinking of life at its edges where it endsAnd I want to tell everyone I have met is that I love themI am looking at the temporary life of a girl childWho didn't know what to say to the man who thought she would change the worldBut I am looking at the permanence of life tooAnd I want to take revengePostpone my doctor's appointment And say," hey what is the symptom of turning 24?"Maybe this time it will be differentHappily It will end differently On a happy noteWho knows?Aren't we all floating like dead fishes through life?But I am little more dead than othersDoes that even make sense?To die a little more than others?I have no answers But I know that yesterday my parents decorated the room with four balloons Two starsAnd a sticker that said ,"happy birthday"I guess that is a good enough reason to liveTo know that someone will always be there, decorating the small room for you as you return Someone who will be excited enough to call you again and again and ask why didn’t you reach yetSomeone who will order pineapple cake even when you don't ask them toSomeone who will reach specially for your birthdayJust to remind you that even if time is a line that sometimes stretches the proximity of a relationship All you need to do isDrive to a riversideAnd sit by its sideWaiting for the sun to setBecause truth be toldSetting suns are indeed beautiful endingsAnd this birthday was a setting sun too
Who do I write this letter to? Nobody is listening. People are running at a speed that it becomes so hard to catch up with them and request,"will you slow down for me please?" I know the answer. I always know the answer. It's time. It's what they lack and I have in abundance. How can we be compatible enough to be friends when time stands in between us. I spend my day generally dressing up but I have nowhere to go. No parties to attend. No new colleges to apply to. No new friendships. I have nothing and world is slowly forgetting me. Slowly stepping on my space and calling it healthy detachment. How do you even ask people for help when they don't even have time to spare? Should I say goodbye then? Because all my life I was unheard. Where do I go? Which door should I knock at? Is it better after death? Because then your absence occupies a space so wide, it starts mingling with others. Should I give people a chance to regret and reflect? Or should I continue with my life as if it doesn't matter, living has a cost you see. People again and again asked me not to expect but then is there no difference between expecting and calling for desperate help? I can die at this moment and people will move on right from the second they hear it. Some will call it inevitable and some will say it was my fault. My brothers and sisters perhaps will lament for a day more but then there will be office leaves they would need to get sanctioned. What will they say. "Sir, my cousin"...and the sentence will trail off and sorry's will be offered. My family will probably hate me for the rest of my life and that alone will be the proof of their love. But there should be some kind of fair compensation afterwards. Like confessions. Regrets. Apologies. But what good will it be then? The truth is people do move on. After a fight. After an accident. After death. How do I say that I need to go away but hell or heaven is not the place. I want to thin out into nothingness. A ghost maybe. Yes I want to turn into a ghost. This is not a good enough ambition but atleast there is some respite from pain. Aren't we all running away rather than running towards. How do I say I can't live anymore because it hurts? Should I write my death wish into a poem or turn it into a metaphor nobody would care dissecting? What should I do? I am reminded again and again of this emptiness that fills me up and it's ironic. But how loud is loud enough to get attention? I can only whisper now. Help me. People ask me to get out of room and into the world, make some friends, hold onto a hobby. But do they realise the harshness in their voice? Or do they always want to guide and never listen? Am I speaking too much? Telling the world too much?
I am too aware of my wrongsAs aware as a mother who knows her child's fragrance I have been too bad at too many thingsA daughterA sisterA loverBut most importantly a poetI have no way to hitchhike anymore with metaphors Or stay at mud houses made up of those goodbyeswhich didn't stay enough for a closureBut met again at circus of lifeGave a partial hugAnd moved on with their worn out voicesTowards their celebrations of new storiesAs if I was never thereLess as a poetMore, a humanWhich might prompt the questionIf poet isn't a human too?To which I have just no answersBut a poet doesn't let the pain pass away without turning it into a poemPain is an opportunity But today I just want to feel and let it goLike shivers from an earthquake I am too aware of my wrongsMy mother fell ill and I didn't ask her how My father made the dinner and I didn't ask whyWhile I slept I kept sleepingAs if nothing in the world could nudge me back to awareness I am too tired, a poet with no story to tellI am nothingI am nothingI am nothingJust like I was at my birthSo I take the vehicle that goes nowhereAnd tell the directions to itAll my life I knew it by heartWhere the chasm endedAnd I end with it tonightIn my sleep again for twenty fourth timeCall it a nightAnd wait again for alphabets to reunite in my dreamsUntil I can write a poem so serene It convinces happy people to die Atleast once.
I wasToo goodAt loveAnd apparently Not good enough Otherwise;For I saw her eyesOne morning Blood redAnd her smileSpoke enough Just enough Otherwise. ©aghoraa
What if love wasn't desperate enough to live, humanity would have taken over the ashes !#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#mirakee#pod
Disgust of Desperation
The sanity seems skippablepushing prudence for parolesrummaging through the eclipsesand halos won't suffice.A hat drops while bending overexposed creases, evacuated cleftsdrooling saliva through clenched teethstating satiation of wiping off the rest.An itch, out of reachand nails growing inwardsa transitory taste teasesthe tongue licking the losses.Subletting spacestied to the outlinesoverhearing the smokemissteping over flint stones.A spur that hooks the flying skirta reminder of being held beforea flag of narrow escapethat just counts as a breather.A respite of reboundsover a base of bubblesscraping the sniffsin a boulevard of breathlessness.A skip over line of resistancea rescue from, a remedy fora puzzled puddle of ballotsnothing stays if not caught today.©pa_luck
How do you describe,Belonging to someone as !#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#mirakee#pod
I Have You
A velcro venture prickingand sticking the same rootsshutting the screams on laying.A zipper locking into bridgessitting on cross legged chainsjutting the jittery jargons.A bandage on field of fiddleclapping the oppositions chestironing the dead space of dirt.A tape turned and twistedinto a climber on crawlsurrounded by something taut.A buttoned hole hookedtucked into sheets on showa perfect projection of premise.A grip on ground of battlestagging the javelin on throwwhile the digging dwells deeper.A gum ball on fabric wallbadging a bribe for restingfor the rest of its perpetuity.©pa_luck
I will fly like dandelion seedsFar away from the worldAnd land on the little girl's hairMaking her believe That her wishes can come true too.I will let her know That little girls are not Father's princessesFor some times they kill their dreamsAnd blood smear on their handsI will tell her don't be born Where expectations preceed the painAsk her to forgive the manWho was dying inside himselfI will tell the magician How things don't disappear on its ownThey are killed and killed again Until the pigeons bleed to deathAnd slowly dies the painI will fly far aboveAnd sit on the balcony of flowers of happy homeTell them how I want to beA daughter hereBut never againI will bend my wings And break my beakAnd cry far in vainPaa it was you who I neededYou failed me again.
Killing A Horse
If you find me goneJust knowI'm gone to kill another horse-Waking up gazingThose shinyBlack neck musclesI'm loading my Gun 50 cal, INeed to overcome thisQuick, slowI don't know I'm gone andI'm backWith an inchWider chest Clean handsNo regretsJudge meI grow backLike a tumorSurvivedA faith. captain_blant