• accismus 9w

    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 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.