chaiNboli

What is the word for what a prey feels in its last moment, when the predator dugs final teeth into it? Paraphrase it into a single sound. Alphabetize it into a single cry. Reside it into an equation  found inside the feet of an Egyptian god. This is what love does to you. This is what death does to you. But there is difference- the one between addiction and carving . This is the difference between future perfect tense and simple future tense. This is the difference between  a carrot cake and a boba coffee. This is our immigrant narrative. We are planet sized storms, dreaming greedily of peace, who have winters in our lungs. We are counter histories,not worth reading, giving treasures back to the cruel Kings. We are proficient in solitude when night falls as a button from our favorite coats. The freezed darkness melts into chocolate icecream on our tongues, holding laser guns so close that it doesn't hurt anymore. We look at the smallness of our hands while comparing it to the ...

This is how we were born: dropped from the sky, into a basket of binary gods. Our shields were shaped as bandages,we cracked jokes while getting chewed in bug mouths . So when we toy with our own lives, the royal neighbourhood passes us with catalogues of what love is, disgusted at us because we chose whom to love and how to love. The light outweighs us and so we call rainbows as our vows, and make bouquets for our lovers out of wild flowers, because we are afraid of gardens. We know if they find out, they will pull us into dirt and cover us with pig skins, until we turn to black humus. Because in their frog eyes, we are low bugs who has to be crushed before turning into dragon flies who can swing in blue sky. Because,  for them we are wrong songs coming out of egg yolks. So, they want to mark doors of this unsaintly crowd of ours by blood. People have always died. In streets. In homes. In temples. In we red hands of others. Death is the cesarean child of night And test tube baby o...

Every mother is a complex narrative- a story within a story within a story. A gnarled tomato growing in the garden, hard stalks and soft skin. A solute not courageous enough to form a solution. A mirror mouth in height of wails. A tamarind skin covered in honey. A useless deity. Earthquakes happens whenever  a daughter looks at her mother_ A tremor lying on the floor covered in rumbles and blood. There is confusion, realizing it is  the same name going to be written in different syllables. Like a soft curse.  Like the mouth of a shark. Like a gun fully loaded and put in mouth. Mothers, as they are taught to be, take away the breath of their daughters and gives back a throat  graciously, out of kindness. They watch their daughters with eyes of a cat, their little cruel paws always cleaned inorder to hurt.  They are flooding canons themselves, who makes their daughters to drown in a glass of water. They are oxymorons, hardened like a tumour, moving in straight lin...

1. After the Chernobyl  fields of sunflowers were  rised in the ground that cleansed the land of radioactivity tetanus. In science,the processe is termed as "phytoremediation".In literature we call this a love poem. Will it be a cliche if I call you my sunflower then? Will it be foolish if I say I want to swirl as the last smoke of a cigarette under your muslin feets? Will it be stupid if I get amazed by how a mere plant saved a whole land, but then get confused of calling a sunflower a mere flower because I just found you as a synonym of the same? Let me tell you you are the sunflower of my Chernobyl, changing the byword of catastrophe to something endurable.  I read that when the sunflowers were all grown up,they were harvested and  safely disposed of through pyrolysis. Pyrolysis is defined as the thermal decomposition in an inert temperature. How can I make them understand that it is the land not the sunflower that needs purification in the purgatory? How can I ma...

The tree has a lane to stand And the flowers have a hand to bloom. What about us - two cartographers sometimes forgetting that exile dances in continuous tense  and foolishly search for safety ? At nights we indulge the beauty of moon who doesn't know how the dirt in our lanes taste like. For us poems are hunting trails, we desperately tries to cover  with the prayers of last hukkahs  and fogged glasses of languages. Like winter bragging about  the holiness of snowfall,  we romanticise our pains, loading up our backpacks  with metaphors like Santaclaus. But in reality we are reindeers  dragging ourselves through days,  in hope of pastures full of daisies. We are a pair of penguin eyes with distinct prints. We are two post offices facing mailing crisis. In other words  we are made of same alluvial soil  on the banks of a river  that no longer exists. So, when I say I know you, trust me. And listen to me translating the echoes running...

Tenderness resides in the hands  of a woman hugging another woman. But then there is abandonment in all the hugs offered, because we go in between the soft armpits  to lose ourselves, where there won't  be a test to differentiate sweat and tears. Slanting sadly like a parallelogram we let ourselves to be robed, totally aware of the presence of another Promethaueus stealing fire. In shoulders of drained souls we let out our innocent anger,  painful like an elegy,  coating it with vaseline, for the porosity of privilege. The loneliness of Pluto shivers in us, unaware of the ocean currents disappearing since there are no telescopes interested to look after us with their magnificent curiosity. Like eyes of a market fish rolling around , remembering a home somewhere in the coral pool,  we look at each other, over a book review shared. I don't tell you that   covered in gasoline is my heart, waiting to be folded into a red star  and sit in your bre...