chaiNboli

A spring without leaves  sleeps in a rock bed,  its abstract spine hushing innocent secrets to red blocked earth . A seagull puts an emerald lid  over coffin of your dreams,  conspiring to sell it to a fish  living inside a net, feeding water. You feel like a saint then,  because world for you is  a half piece bread that was stolen  from your pocket by a lazy wind. To push back your hunger,   you have gargled sea water in shower,  while rage was nicking  the back of your ear. This mimicry of being alive  fills vipers venom in every nook,  so you forget words red with remembrance. So you forget to look at your feet,  to avoid tripping over pink roses. Fluffy demons run around your eyes,  and you fall in love with them:   a crime scene so perfect, that  your nails turn turmeric yellow  while fixing the broken clocks and stories. You, a guilty sinner daydreaming of a welcoming door made of w...

My lover once stitched a lullaby  around my mouth and  I pirated it into the market of memories  on a monsoon day in which  the sky was a weeping woman  and my umbrella was a man  unfurling his childhood trauma into anger. It was before my lover  lended a matchbox to devils  so that they can light a candle  to walk through the darkness inside him. Grief for him, was a bride,  coming in blue horse,  with her dainty dress moving aganist  her sand blasted shoulders, whom he welcomed with cactus thirst. And he made a home for her and  they turned to a single rock,  forgetting the legend of springs. What this means is,  I had to strung an elegy for him  in a daisy chain. That I had to tore the scarf of his song  from the constellation of mad kisses. I decided to put it inside  the broken neck of a humming bird-  a danglingal martyr of calloused time. Because, I was a shepherd with flute,  he w...

The oranges wait to be peeled. You turn into the softness of a cat's feet. Because,  long before becoming a tragic poem, you had preserved your heart  into a lemon pickle,  with all it's blues and yellows  perfectly balanced, like a woman praying with her eyes closed,  so that she can see God. Like a wingless bird I search your memory  with all it's flaws,  and remember that your mouth  is the miracle that prophets were mentioning. You touch the places of my heart  where only grief have come close and keep my dead body hostage  in this war zone, after keeping  twenty seven moons of uranus inside your ribcage as a part of negotiation. You trace minutes by counting  the laugh of dirty cicadas, and I tore a paper out of my notebook so that you can draw a map of postmodern love convent. You don't ask for the ink,  you simply smile at me. I will let you cut me like this,  in this kind way ,  and sew your name with tul...

Eleven moonsons ago, he gave birth to a poem and put a yellow daffodil in its braid. Bright and soft, his cotton eyes,  where a slow earthquake is in hiding-  a cruel divination. A lone star sitting still in his throat, contemplating analogy of a nightmare, without a stopwatch to help. Pink flowers growing from his bones,  asking for apricots to be peeled. To have his breath on fingers,  a non edible joy,  like finding smile in a sock drawer. God sleeps inside my lover's mouth,  freshly painting a day dream with sore feets that no one will massage.  So, I kiss his lips tenderly,  defying conspiracy theories of abandonment every person carry in pockets.  //And he turns his face away,  like am a carton of strawberries  no body is enchanted of.  My prayers will be unanswered.//