chaiNboli

 The mulberry tongue of serpent split in two while we collect our home land in toe nails. Biting off the slender necks of marigold with long nails to adore our hair we sing hymns even angels forgot. The warm summer drizzle soaking us wet and we are green ferns, heavy and sparkling in evening light. We find ghosts with masks in family dinners and our throats itches for all the grief we can't swallow.  The pain is carving a Fibonacci's series, beautiful and tragic, in the walls we painted with layers of blues to hide the red coloured flowers. We move through the crowd in softness of the underbelly of a dead pigeon folding the flesh of sky between our black umbrellas. The strawberry candles flicker while gate keeping our unfertilized kisses blowing dandelions at sharp twelve o clock. We look at devil with sympathy, for he is a fallen star, helpless and hanging, his unfathomable hunger is his sin. We mothered each other perfectly knowing that we will outgrow each other, still we c...

 Young enough to believe everything, we are  stroking the yellow wings of dead butterflies: two pairs of blue coloured lungs echoing syllables of a distant memory. The summer evening while pomegranates kissed dates on iftar, we were holding our beads close to our chests. The angels were on a picnic while devils whispered in their ears about the things we forgot to consider.  We crushed cherry coloured streets sleeping under the blanket of sweet smelled jalebis under our shoes trying to find a place to hide when we heard songs in the ragas of anger from the saffron coloured mob.  Our wounds were big enough like our clogged throats when they asked as to apologize for all the prayers we uttered. They scrubbed our skins in chants we never knew while we offered a jar of honey colored nausea to the God our mother introduced us.  He was silent may be because they killed him first, calling an unworthy deity. The sunflower field were burnt and our father camouflaged into...

 War and peace are children of the same father who cremated their mother without a gravestone somewhere in the Saturn rings. He told his son war  not to cry but to conquer  and called his daughter  a useless one, snatching her letters and burning her tongue. He saw his son playing in the fields where people lived among corpses and sea gulls sang psalms.  The children cut their birthday cakes made of clay in which their ancestoral bones bloomed into red patriotic cherries.  Red sonnets where written on the markets and cement floors in syllables he couldn't read.  The girl without a name was given the best student award posthumously even though she was not good in reading braille of bullets.  The woman who painted her lips with orange colored bombs slept with someone humming mouth less oaths. The loneliness of a single shoe in mud, it's lace untied crushing love letters cremated in the poppy fields. Birds who knew the act of pickpocketting, their ha...

 There is August in my throat and rain in my hands like the breath of a dead mother we all wish to bottle up and keep. I miss playing in the garden of innocence while Rip van winkle used to braid my hair and the time my guns didn't used to bleed while telling his name.  My eyes have the emptiness if a graveyard and I was them three times a day to keep them shining and clean, even though no one comes to light candles with a whispered prayer. Do you know if I get a chance I will rob it's life from a butterfly and hide mine in the bitter memores, listening to the soft song of coffin touching the earth?  You can fold me into a piece of cloth and dip me into lavender shampoo before you clean your kitchen sink with me, because then the tears will be recycled. Plath understood all the hues of sadness, even the golden brown of it and that is why she decided to colour herself like a toasted bread. I read books of men on love because the women don't know the alphabets to write abou...

 There are love poems inside me, like blankets not enough to shake off the cold.  Like slave marks on the coffee skin of a dead Victorian girl. Like a swallowed glass with pieces stuck in bleeding throat. Like the  dark dreams of a prophet in the middle of a war.  Like ghosts wrapped in nostalgia, smiling and laughing. Like the bubble gum wrappers abandoned in a dust bin. Like the mercy of a cat playing with a dead bird. Like the pyre of a blueberry coloured smiles that forgot to return home. Like the helpless teeth tired of chewing but can't complain.  Like the strangers partying in the Mars avoiding the moonlight. Like the middle parted hair which is not ready to change. Like the songs of fishermen in Ganga, mislearnt and forgotten.  Like everything and anything.  There are love poems inside me and  I cling to them like a child to the breast of a mother, hungry and in search of warmth.

 Opening eyes in blinding lights of summer sun with a sigh. Brushing teeths in ammonia so that it can sparkle in false alarms. Pancakes rolling between thumb and index finger while a stranger says "hello" in a familiar language. The lady next door offers to read the palm in her cottage where dirty angels sleep with men.  Softening of  red coloured sickle kept on the sun after being thoroughly washed in Sunday. Paper spines of books pressed against damp cheeks while searching for a sanctuary in sleep. Realizing  that  kissing is a form of self destruction, wet hearts sliced open like a human sacrifice.  Watering lonely daisy who is singing an old ballad struck at the throat of the girl child sleeping in its roots.  Finding metaphors to sadness like "red coloured cherry in heart". Tasting despair in mouth while swallowing thick sugary lies.  Planting daffodils waist deep in cold currents in dreams where I am a crescent moon. Applying  strawberr...

 We laugh our tiny lungs dry, running through creeks barefoot knowing that if we fall, it is the end.  Every second is a tomato seed, so small, but staining the soul blood red.  Still we shelter the moments under the wings of rain in a distant hope. We don't believe that there are honest mothers and soft fathers, nor did we believe in Gods.  But before going to bed we pray for two minutes in silence, because what if the world ends today night?  We press our sorrows like goldenrodes between the pages of our favorite novels, and listen to old mourhain songs hiding in riverside tombs.  We take chemical baths in the kitchen sink resisting the mean winds of future. We try to write ABAB poems,but everything comes out like a preserved autumn fruit, strange to have in a winter night. We are the odd one out in a group, staying silent in the middle of a party like the modest wings of a city sparrow at a London night. We eat  chocolate cakes until our mouth turns...

 There is ariel swimming in my tongue It's mermaid scales dripping blood in a red mixed with blue hues, In memory of skins blooming in spring sun. Once, not so long ago peace was there  holding my heart in its soft palms.  Intertwined in my hand was smile, it's thumb running through my knuckles. Now my breath smells of uranium calling destruction  while I find a strand of hair hidden on my rice, black as my eyes. I won't break the glass plate for that, because am not a man. I am someone who wraps everything in my skin and move on like it doesn't matter. I am someone who waits for your kisses knowing that you are searching for a place to hide inside me, not a home.  I am someone who fits in polaroids without a problem, because am so small to this world.  I am someone who melts like a cotton candy, drying my tears in afternoon sun.  I am someone who is like a goldfish in ocean thinking that it is the ocean itself . I am someone who calls dandelions for a...