chaiNboli

  The rosette sun of evening sky mingles into the oblivious black, like a white noise of elegy passing through the braille fingers of a blind girl. I dance, two legs of a dead frog, touched with metal-coloured electrodes. Brilliant devil, stop gifting me apples I had enough. When river flooded, you grabbed me by the roots of my hair, bending your eyelash behind hidden, bulging eyes of a monster. Your cheek scar, the heart of holiness yet to be properly named, shone like the wasp of god’s hair. Like a big cat playing with a poor rat, You claimed me- your mud prints half on my spiral blood structure. Behind chained cloak of the door you hid me, while I scattered my tears in the floor- poor Rapunzel with no long curls, no prince to save. My fingers vomited words, the ignorant children who didn’t know that no on writes poems on a battle field. You polish the grotesque mask of loving parent, day after day, month after month, year...

  Do you know what apple cheeked saints sang when you were born?- “O the dear baby, an angel moulded in human kiln Moon behind his eyelids, a lighting soft as rain”. You, now a half man and half child, looking at me, mimicking our father’s words- slut slut slut, in vague hope that I will cry and weep. Don’t you know that these eyes of mine, Are my personal telescopes to see a world I wish I could have? Don’t you know malice and kindness can stay in a single heart? That was the first lesson you studied- And what belonged to you in the urns of breast milk; good for you. Bad for me. Every word saliva thick in your mouth, You call me a heretic when I say that all god created was divisions, breathing our mother’s poem. You are a prince who never tasted war Am a slave ships against winds. You make me a limping doll soon to be thrown out, An adulterer’s ring, A silver spider who doesn’t know how to knit a clean web. My envy is not...

 You, the boy with vampire tooth, Is a hell flame sketching self portraits. Your smile is fatal, Deadly like a butcher’s knife. It is dangerous, so are you. You peel warm oranges under the sun, Sweet on the tongue, mismatched to your heart. You search baby breaths in evil forests, and put them in the hangers with the white pillow cases drowned in salt water yesterday night. You have a blue razor in your pocket, Like a poetry with trigger warnings- You know it will hurt, but its beauty calls you. You took your wisdom teeth away And replace them with fangs, Because one day you realized world is not for innocent children. You stapled flower in your gum Waiting for a Cinderella’s kiss. You giggled silently over the ashes of The god your mother used to talk of, Because now he is dead. You ate chocolate muffins but never made one, because you don’t know how to create- you only know how to savour and to destroy. You once ate a red ru...

Are you angry, because I can’t be your Oedipus son, The one with shiny lungs, breathing sweet songs in and out? I can see your eyes shining, Like a wicked cat’s- A golden boy but A bronze girl. Are you angry because I am nothing like you, The one who forgives and forgets, The one who mends and tends? I am a dead egg, rotten- In search of a grave, where I can peacefully sleep. You want me to be you; Not like you, but you. A mouth full of pearls. A goddess in rag. A womb that endures. A round belly with jelly fish. A river of milk, yellow and tasteless. A velvet palace with lullaby. A dancer with kettles. An admirer of holy robes. A gardener of white lilies. A bird happy to be dissected. A master’s fetcher. A historian who won’t ask questions. A silly cloud in the night sky. But here I am. A bashful red mouth. A toad who can’t walk. A traitor. A refusal. Bitter, ungrateful and cold. You will be glad to choose another, ...

  Do you know every street light of this city eulogize the dead sparrows, their mourning inefficient, their yellow light melding to dark cries? Do you know this city is a poor lizard closing his eyelids? trying to camouflage with naked dreams Of you, me and other hundred nameless? Do you know this city is an alchemist, casting spells from his long majestic tongue, plotting against the hierarchy of angels? Do you know this city is   a bright planet where bullets shrink to flowers under indigo skies without sunsets? Do you know this city is a wild cuckoo laying its polka dotted eggs on my eye socket and insisting to mother them with care?   Do you know this city is the wrinkled hand of evil stepmother, opening my mouth wide, to make me eat poisoned watermelons? Do you know this city is a shiver, opening the grey curtains of my feverish head, while drinking   from a cup made of fallen stars? Do you know this city...

  The words I play with, the dough to bake bitter poems, grit their teeth and run away, for they know am not their mother. Untouched in my door steps, the cuckoo song lies, an enchanted thing I dare not to touch. His sprouted wings, white and dreamy Groping the roots of my daisy plants, the awkward pigeons rolling their eyes and walking in crutches. He, a small divine seed,   not from womb, commanding the fruits to ripe with time and the dead to die again because he created the living. His eyeballs, all watching, reflecting my mundane walks, the all-knowing ember pieces. The celibate apples in his boulevards, ripe and rotten, glitter under the foggy breath of ridiculous, freakish moon. The cigar on his tongue, a soft anecdote, tasting of ashes, turn to an elegy, snuffing burning candles.   His black boots, dissolve lengthy swan songs   while coffin bearers ignore his perfume. In between my starched breasts...

 Rosebuds stinks with time, Their little mouths burning black lazy to put their red lipstick to say how sweet love is. (Now) we are both cold mannequins, mute and deaf, the floating light dreams, forgotten and   rotting in the breast pockets. A dynasty of ghosts wrapped in nostalgia, their eyeballs   white and yellow, singing congratulations. Two snakes dancing in a blue mask, after gifting a basket of apples, so red as a heart plucked. The leather sandals of a fairy godmother Chiseled in the edges, witnessing the massacres and laughing at the bald moon- A scar in the sky, where saints are afraid to talk of unmiraculous women like me. You stand there, non-guilty, like refined snow of a winter morning, white and pure. And cold. You try to pull me out of a blue sack, the one I knitted after meeting you, telling that you are the curve of God I used to pray to. Should I be grateful to be invited to become a purple pawed ...

 The summer teeth of sun, golden and warm, touching the vermillion lips of flowers. I will hide in their mouths, licking my bruises with my pink tongue,   but how can  I behold my pain for am my grief itself? My grief is same as the noteless song of a cicada- loud enough in the dark, cunning enough to hide in a tiny body. It shines like the heresies of men who read heaven with their choked prayers,   listening to silence of a sacrifice because gods love slaughter. It is a beloved sky reminding the fables in which run away daughters always die at the end, and unlucky heroines who fell in love with beasts. Grief enwraps cold shoulders like molten iron, reminding of sepia toned smiles, oozing between daisy chains that hold me between life and Lethe. It is a country burning where the sleep deprived bees strip their golden dress in search of food. It is the evil cloth, so blue, clinging to my body like a second skin. ...