sagnik_sarma

"For the merry shall celebrate their paper planes, and I shall collect them near storm drains."

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  • sagnik_sarma 1w

    Panic Architecture

    you’re a cold affair today
    and incidentally i’m without a jacket,
    but i’m standing over a glistening wok
    with a quiet cook oversalting the eggs,
    i mustn’t stop the flow of his clockwork
    but i’ll wait for the merry men to leave,
    for whom hot food only satiates hunger,
    and i’ll watch his apron save him again
    when there’s no answer
    from the number on the argon advert
    and the sinews of his heart shred
    with the loud thunder
    of a moth caught in a repellent.

    my eyes can’t adjust to the dark
    so i hear pensioners coddling an obituary
    second of the two times that they felt love,
    if i was blessed with words, I’d say,
    the first was like the singeing of your finger
    stopping my match in its tracks
    and the rain felt like blood from an open skull,
    the residual taste of death and a kiss
    and a drop circling around your silhouette
    my vision tells me to shatter, quickly,
    because the blankets that have seen you
    won’t let me sleep.

    there’s a quiet aisle at the mall bookstore
    where great men belittle my prose,
    i lie there, nursing the nausea of my panic,
    If tomorrow,
    I find myself on the wrong side of a car
    only upturned as I am now,
    the chandelier high above, now a headlight,
    a blurry image of us, leaving together,
    on a happier trail of congealed asphalt.
    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 20w

    notes for dementia

    the first pictures were of dirty panes,
    how eclipsed skies crystallized in them,
    how abandonment held me on a cold floor,
    playgrounds had finally refused me
    they argued that misery isn’t a good sport
    there are better bets with a coin toss,
    we settled, final terms on a chalkboard,
    deserted the quiet sunsets meant for us.

    my quaint wars didn’t have last stands
    only seizures of rain and napalm,
    gunshots aren’t a terrible lullaby
    when their barrels opened up to you
    dead stars floating in your pupils,
    perhaps,
    the saints and demons called a truce,
    for the unnamed painter
    who died to his muse.
    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 21w

    human existence is a pestilence
    #pod #writersnetwork

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    fleabag

    you smelt like goodbye
    like the last caress of a septic leg,
    your bright nails on my face, trying
    to dig me out of these glassy eyes,
    maybe resuscitate me with a kiss
    on the wet asphalt, to tease the billboards
    that its neon cyanide always works.

    i’ve moved into emptier rooms
    with my made-up name
    and a drain clogged with heartache.
    at yard sales, I look for the happy kids;
    they want a piece of my longing
    as an escape,
    as an enacting of their songs,
    for a whisper that sounds like you.

    the chairs on the last train are cold,
    i see endless stories in my window,
    bright dots in a fading picture,
    perhaps, i’m perfect in this stillness
    i’m not living, i’m not loving you,
    just awaiting judgement or a conclusion
    of this experiment you abandoned.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 21w

    Gas Stations

    where the highways lose their number
    you’re in familiar territory,
    the gas stations are quiet and
    there’s an attic where God hides out
    with anxiety and the pills that come along.
    in these places, refueling comes with a pause
    a pause which tells you that you were stranded
    ever since a salesman sold you a church
    that was never divine enough to be wed in,
    and you’ve been surviving on the leftovers
    that a vending machine throws at you pitifully.

    old habits die hard
    when bathroom murals leave you in anarchy,
    and you reclaim your bar-fly reputation,
    a day with miner’s wine, a day when June’s playing,
    you haven’t sat upright unless it’s her voice
    and you stumble out as she sings if it’s too late,
    there are executives who’ve built her a mongrel’s shrine,
    who’ll take her to a street where storms don’t reach
    and you’ll be the wildfire, called by her name.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 27w

    stairs and us

    we crossed each other in a rush.
    i only wished to be left alone
    but the crowds pushed me ashore,
    left me an audience to you
    telling old newsstands open at odd hours
    how sad men could never run the world
    because they carried jackets on their arm
    and paused to fill blanks at faded signposts.
    perhaps, it’s just that they notice
    how some pedestrians linger at a crossing,
    they notice the dirt on their groceries
    the mud on their smiles,
    and unknowingly get buried in them.

    if you spend enough years in a parking lot
    you’ll grow a hole inside of you
    that’ll peek at the sky from under your shirt
    and you’ll know that God had other sons,
    who didn’t get a Bible or a resurrection.
    there’ll be a stampede when the world ends
    they’ll hold hands, not suitcases,
    love is a bastard, I know it’ll survive,
    but I’ll lie here, till it rains ash,
    may the last blue sky,
    be your pretty face.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 29w

    Waiting Rooms

    May, I do not wish to die in a strange bed. You tell me I'm short of pills, not to come home tonight. My penny only buys me a minute of sanity, your voice, and I'll savour every second.
    Your flowers are within an arm's reach, and I do not need breaths to form words. When they pinned me down, I wish you weren't scared for me.

    May, do not let despair take you. When the breeze brings me to the window, I know my heart's warm enough to hold a stranger's hand. It's easier to cry for faces that we see on billboards, than it is to proxy for the recipients of our last letters. I'm a private person, and let it be known that my pen slowed down for this bit.

    May, we're too young for this to last. I see how their hands tremble with the syringe, I know I'm doomed. Listen to me carefully, when the televisions count me too, do not listen to them.
    You're my story, tell it to everyone you've asked for help.
    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 29w

    A Picture to Live By

    It's dusk,
    But I'm not in a hurry,
    Slouched, a black mass,
    You meld into the horizon,
    I wonder if these evening chants
    Will absolve me like they did to you,
    Or will I be sent capes in dreams
    Only to be strangled by them.

    They say
    About poets with burnt tongues
    That their thirst is an excuse
    To swallow stories that will never be.
    Sandstorms thrive in deserted towns
    Lending ink to their ghastly memories,
    And in a wintry storm
    You were one of mine
    Though I repented,
    You still broke my shrine.

    There's a picture of the night sky
    Of dusty palms,
    Buzzing flies, and sleepy eyes,
    Of a fever dream,
    a nasty scolding, and tremors,
    My company is a bunch of muffled voices
    Except there's you, curious of my heart
    My pulse too strong, your nail fond of art.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 33w

    I'm not one to complain, because I threw myself into a cab of strangers between the same hours of the evening and on the same roads. But you look beautiful, like all that I've loved before, and someone I can't even imagine. You're a possibility where I'm wishfully careless, a reality where I'm alive.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 39w

    Notes from a Cynic

    Let this be a scene,
    The kitchen that smells of sea
    And you've been absent a long time,
    I won't call out to you
    You look peaceful, and in love,
    Yearning for a seagull to perch
    With a knight's promise in its beak,
    Perhaps, this is where I lose us
    Into a sight, an image, a painting,
    Where people would give you
    Endearing names, haunting ones,
    But they'll not know me, just what I see,
    They'll not know how I felt looking upon you
    With a paper cut, unknowingly bleeding
    And smudging my love for you.

    ©sagnik_sarma

  • sagnik_sarma 39w

    I've fallen to the plague. #pod #writersnetwork

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    Prisoner of a Plague

    I am glad that you can't look at me
    My fragility is a sight for moths.
    The warden has left me a makeshift window
    From where he casts an argon lamp
    And tells me, the napalm is not a friend.
    I believe him when I convulse at sunset
    That there's no tranquil to this fear,
    Just an unsettling solitude.

    In delirium, I keep myself to the edge,
    There's a chair meant for conversations
    But I've piled it with soiled receipts
    To deprive the hawkers of a seat.
    Up high inside the caged telly
    They leave on a noire,
    And in their flicker
    Swap bullets for syringes.

    The dark harnesses me upright,
    I remember the clothes that I came in
    How I ought to look when I'd see you,
    And if I stopped coughing for a second
    Would they let in a picture of you?
    For my troubling memory, for a kiss?
    Dorothy, maybe your last letter
    Could be a bed time story tonight?
    Or maybe it could be where my heart had died?

    ©sagnik_sarma