chaiNboli

Dust dancers and grief singers  join together their hands on equinoxes, bargaining for love letters  and digging new shrines. I copy them in tobacco stains  over the walls of a place  where women with white eyes rest,  like trees tore down by winds. I have dried out my crippled words  enough to be preserved  for another century of ignorance,  so that I can say  shaving superstitions from  the head of an astronaut  fake landing on mars is  not terrible as lying about  god as a mother figure. I have been pinching the breasts of him,  to have a drop of milk  to stop me from choosing death  but he wrapped me  in blue moon precipitation.  I have been ringing the bells a little loudly,  that it enchant forest cuckoos  to stay silent than forming alliance  over eggs that won't crack. I have heard that  death of a god is the birth of a poet , just like the death of a sailor  is t...

Today is an unreliable narrator,  idly sitting under a gigantic sun  like a tropical tourist, waiting for lilac hurricanes. Today is the last strand of hair  god coloured blue , before  hammering bones of a fish  into a poet's pen. Today is the verse yesterday mimics ,  while a mine slowly dances to it,  not afraid of an explosion. Today is an escape map  weaved over sunsets, for a rebellion transparent enough to forget blood stains. Today is the coil of tragedy  sticked on to the gentle breath  of saturn waiting to be silenced  by lawful euthanasia. Today is the mute story  no one can remember because  it had no golden yellow morals  to teach both sheeps and wolfs. Today is a cannibal eating its own heart, passionately enough to call it a beautiful art. Today is the fingers over  itching scalp of a daughter  who is secretly going to cut her hair,  in response to everything she is going through. Today...

You are an atheist. And God is old man  clutching a medicine bottle. Am a polythene bag  he failed to take note of. God forgot to mention that  I was a ceramic plate in the past life,  just like he forgot to clean hunger from streets named after flowers. So I became house of my father's silence. He forgot to perform a miracle , and so an artist found drowning therapeutic. And so a mother decided to  turn into a bread in hands of a stranger. And so a little throat was silenced. And so a lover became a footnote  and another a memoir. That is why prayers should be like  knives peeling oranges, or the hand of a serial killer, or holes of a gun or pain of a barren womb or smile of a wounded bird or plundering of a holy city  or a poisoned love potion, or a mad woman in dark, so that angels can't  dump the trauma  casually over ice creams.