chaiNboli

Living is a barbaric act, So there is nothing wrong in dreaming of being a moth who lives only for 7 days. It is still a long period  to mistake death for home. To be consumed by light,  to be devoured by darkness, to be nothing more than  a whispered promise, a fragile flutter of wings against the glass. There won't be a search party Or mourning. Or chilled cries and sighs. No more crippling despair. No more longing for longing. Because history glows  in the moment of a death. Like the fever filled eyes  of Satan breaking away in God's lap.

God sent me an angel, His less favorite one. Fluent only in silence. Frenzied wings disappeared. The disowned one. So I screeched my throat and offered it to him as a prayer. It was a half embrace which saved us nothing  in the history's worst snowfall. His tenderness was afraid  of my sharpness, My famished heart was  afraid of his innocence. So I stained myself blue, Disregarding his holiness. My hunger chewed  everything in its range. I became both fire and water. He became both the pigeon And the cage. We both orphaned by the sky. We both conjoined twins, Like a pair of shoes, Like freedom and slavery. Something die in us like a meek volcano. Something live in us like a bubblegum dream. Tomorrow he will be leaving. Sunlight will be tangled in his hair And I will be licking my wounds in darkness

I have heard that  ribs of the moon are  so delicate that  it takes the mythical rabbit  in its lap to feed stories. So, it would be cruel of me  to pray for a celestial hug,  because I weight of grief  which can turn it into  an extinct poem. My grief picks scars  from pillows and buries it  inside oceans, where  the whales sing elegies  and the fish wear mourning veils. My grief is a tongue less snake, moving swiftly in the crowd  and easily in silence, mute and deadly. It is a bat, eating flowers and grass,  flying in nights with a yawn  that makes tiny joys scream. It is a root,  severed by an axe, but pretending to be a bloom, even in the days when  summer takes rest inside heaven's cup. It is a piece of my heart  sunbathing in a butcher's stand, asking to be forgiven  for everything it feels and  sighs that atleast its me,  not my beloved. It speaks to the moon in the language ...

God may be forgiving  But my mother is not.  There is a ghost her prayers can't exorcise, So she turns into a door that won't let a colour enter. This is not cruelty , But a precaution. So, she turns into a stain. It remains even when I lick my plate clean. Like a hive, it multiplies mocking the lakes I visited. So, she turns into a papaya. Bland, sweet and seasonal. Like my regret, it takes shapes it can't phantom itself.  There are pathogens who  enjoy living in their hosts, And then there are ones that  beg for antibiotics. Am both. She is both. We are, yet, not same. The hammer beats the iron, the iron turns into glass. The glass pretends to be iron, The glass breaks, There is no metaphors left.

The sea and a woman  is a literary device with long history. She as a wrecked ship, Sea as a salvation.  She as a waiting maiden Sea as the embracing hope. She as a hopeless fish, Sea as a tear stained cheek. Time hoppes with them,  there is nothing more to say. So, if you stand in the fringes of a sea,  Asking yourself the tongue twisters, dont forget that it is an opium market. And that am a flower shop. We both are conjuring methophors  poets conveniently forget. We both are baptised in grief. We both are keepers of lost things. We don't count dusks and dawns, We don't try to wrap our head in hope. Our vastness is a bruise  we press our ears into. We speaks in tongues of salt. We don't patronize orphaned letters. Instead we sleep,  taking shapes, gulping rage. So,  I ask you ; Sleep, until there is another dream. Dream until you find a god. Love the god, until you find a home. May be then you will find  how I am a burning sea, how sea is a...

There is so much violence  in a loneliness,  standing in the middle of a crowd, It's legs fixated on a delta,  silently under an exogenic force. It's eyes in search of something  that can hold its hand while  crossing the national highway. It has two umbilical cords: One of the past life and  other of a faceless lover. It keeps both, under its shirt and moves like a fish with wings. It has the freedom to choose  whether to burdened by life  or to have a fulfilling death. It laughs at misfortunes  and snarl at lucky draws, like a betrayed customer in a 50% off sale.  It's brain is a black hole, walking on egg shells, Where words are  wastes of time and  time is waste of death. It's calves are coffee stained, It's lips with narcotic aftertaste. Because, Loneliness feels lonely without your name in its mouth.

1. A running body of fever  2. A yellow halo possessing blue sky 3. Weaver of black shovels 4. Clutched breath 5. Heaviness of a dead lamb 6. Light inside torn wound 7. Variable of tenderness 8. Granularity of hope 9. Bloodied shoulder of a lover 10. Agent of shiny god 11. A bruise that blooms into a flower 12. The weight of a mother's gaze 13. A language that lives in epidemic 14. The ache of a ghostly presence 15. A beauty that cannot be spoken 16. A butchered river 17.Carrier of tombstone  18. Huge mouth with no answer 19. A flatworm tgat can shape-shift  20.Failed endeavour of a fisher man 21. Archaeologist without certificate  22. Collector of betrayed prayers  23. A tiny skelton of adjective 24. Filler of water pots waiting to be turned into wine 25. Drafter of apology letters 26. Nose without piercing 27. Pulse on jugular vein 28.Eldest daughter who knows brutality  29. Numbness 30.Twin of devil, but better

I once prayed to God to give me a knife, to cut the flowers  and the citrus fruits. Because I was hungry. My hunger oscillated  between lunar and solar months  I fed myself everything: Apples, Marbles, Butterfly wings, Blood soaked floods. I cleaned the pits of stomach ardently, obsessively. Lightness prevailed. Its weight drowned me. I wanted light. I asked for a knife,  to cut me open, to purify myself. Not to be a dark continent with lunatic tides anymore. But to crave my bones  with letters impeding doom. I cried ,  My anger turned red. I begged My helplessness turned grey. In hollowness I prayed. I once prayed god for a knife, And he answered, you were the answer. You, the blade, sharpening its teeth on me, sliding its fingers on me, Gouging my eyes out, Striking to kill, Beautifully, Artfully.

Your absence  puts its mouth on me,  splits my skin with its  metallic finger  from my throat to belly,  with precision of a doctor. If cuts me open to find the dried heart of a lover, a petridish with  scratch of your name, but without warmth of a stale sun. There is a heavy sky between us, a void through which  I will crawl to  steal metaphors for you,  like an angry pilgrim  who was denied of hope. My silence stitches  cracks of thread thin words  once you uttered,  a season which no longer exists,  tail of an extinct reptile. You stick to me, a god fearing parasite, blinded by all the colours  we saw in each other. Am a body,  revolving inside a sand coloured cuboid, delusional of galaxies,  embracing emptiness. Your memory is a vulture,  it's beak so soft  and wings so fast,  that it picks me clean. My existence is an unlucky coin  no fortune-teller will take,  since it ha...

His darkness stands  like a light, that you  mistake it for a star, And try to follow it ,  in search of an absent treasure. His grief is multicoloured,  like a rainbow,  and it intrigues you  to a point that you turn all white. His happiness is a new eclipse the calenders forgot to record, so you let your pious blood  evaporate into a shade of yellow. His voice, a siren pulling you out  from death to a diamond shore, sneaks into your sleep like  the favorite word of a polyglot. His legs runs in search  of butchered dreams of yours, promising to cure the  sanity world gifted you. He doesn't know  what to do with  his hands, and  so does you. So you hide yours in books. And he lends them to angels. You both hold each other then. Like two bruised fruits clinging to the same branch, afraid to let go,  afraid to ripen alone. You dive into the  depths of his darkness, where the light is a distant memory, like a f...

The Gods here are tender, their hands woven  from the same threads as our hearts,  so their fingers have  fractured bones like our prayers. Their heads are oily with  knuckle kisses of candles, and smells of split ends of an ocean. They play with flowers,  colours running like  wet ink on a page,   like love seeps through  cracks even in the midst of a war. They can't stand still,  with one foot in grief  and the other in laughs ,  while their patience  runs out in whimps. They ask for sweets  as snacks, afraid of  tormenting holy tongues  with something unholy  like the cry of an orphan girl. Because their mouths taste  like sickness of spring, the stories of a land  where honey flows and  butterflies are not hungry,  doesn't excite them. They don't know  how to colour, since rainbows are  slippage of their memories. They cry in audible whispers  and we call it prophe...

When a grave digger writes poems for a gardener   It creates an unintentional wound the scientists call love. This is soft like a song running barefoot through a whorehouse, And unintelligible like the sermon of a prophet in the middle of apocalypse. The first symptom is a frenzied denial, blazing and melting like the last sun, rubbing the hands in a sublime strand The claustrophobic sighs on the glances shared follows next. The darkness burning the heads will find a bright imposter, and this is the final story,since there is no going back. The grave digger wants to be a leave stalk, And the gardener a coffin bearer. They pray to a weaver bird , for bell shaped domes the angry rains can't destroy. They speak in riddles, that looks like the curves of a traveller's feet on a barren land. They burn incense sticks and flowers, a secret code, a needle that cuts a fish bone in gods throat. They both know they are going to be a tragedy that is going be an identity like a birthmark. B...

The sea has the same hue  of your favorite shirt. For me it is  a fundamental malady  threatening my sanity, because I remember  more than I forget. This lustful calling is  defined as memory,  an arsonist swallowing  innocent gazes. So I press myself into me, my bones brittle and shallow. Am a skelton, who is calculating  the price I had to pay when I sold my homeland. My tattered teeth is still  enjoying your favorite dessert. My eyeballs are holding stories in the belly of a flower head. I wish to talk to you in a tongue not mine, a final prayer. I want to tell you that am  not afraid of what comes after death, That you are a god beyond saving, That you are my metaphorical spine. I want you to tell me not to slice wrists, That life is not a futile race That you still think of me. But Like you, sea suffers silently. Like you sea is not meant to stay. Like me, death keeps growing. Like me, death is meant to stay

Your father owns cigarette and mother has the fire, you are the smoke from destruction, which devil finds amazing and calls art, while licking his wolf paws since his lamb costume is in bathroom. The boy you loved is a pipeline with grief moving in circles and your loneliness finds a Siamese twin in it, so you two decide to make poems about anything and everything, until he gets bored and you get shooed. Your nails are outgrowing the basic symmetry and you wish to cut it so that your god can thrift it to crucify his next target who finds another form of water to defy scientific rules and calculations. Human anatomy disgusts you, may be because you never wanted to be a human, but a lifeless thing without tongue, but then on scrutiny you are a lifeless thing with tongue and so you are supposed to speak and also not to speak, because only the time can point out the correct pronunciation. Religion is the leash with teeth attached to your collar, with a monologue soaked in a adulterer's...

The tooth not privileged  enough to be in the sack of a sleep deprived fairy sleeps  near the hysterical bedlamp,  while you almost kill yourself. Almost. Simply because you  wanted to prove that you can. Simply because your  loneliness was hungry. Simply because your grief  consumed more water  that it caused a drought. Simply because destruction  seemed kinder than survival. You wished to be a small bug crushed under his boot. And to shape-shift into  something that he may keep forever. You dreamed of being a his muse,  this little non poet who  created metaphors unintentionally  and to be revered as a part  of his personal history. You fancied to be the  selected one in the banquet  of this blue prince and  to dance freely,  oblivious of a glass slipper  which will eventually  loss the magic. You manifested to be  the summer fruit  sculptured by god,  something that can be...

The earth is  running out of flowers,  there is no  alternative for spring,  the sky is fit to raise the vultures,  with its receding hairline  looking like a moon. I slice my mulberry heart,  because am a woman  reared like a knife. I decide to gift you  the big slice, because am a woman  reared like a lamb. You walk without a second glance, your ego parading in its might. I follow,  longing for something, anything,   even a predator's smile. I follow,  like a camel with a lump  enough to store all your grief. You run,  afraid of inheriting  my blue hugs, like a blind child  afraid of touching  a poem in braille. I look at you, a salivating child looking  at glass doors of cakes  I run. I fall. My knees bleed- like lovely roses.

I was decaying slowly  in the secrets of a cosmic well, And there you were: sneaking in shadows of  something unholy. You were eavesdropping  the dark visitors,  while I stood,alone  in the vastness of a galaxy. Your eyes, a gravity that  spun me out of my orbit. Your despair, a hand that  removed my celestial veil. You saw me aching,  with a heart that was  scavenging for leftover love. You became a god then, feeding me, And I a devotee,  longing for nights. I saw you sinking. I wanted to be a mother  who made your taste buds dance, a father who is not afraid  to caress your umbilical cord, a lover that hums heroic hymns. Time slips out of our fingers, like water in clenched fist. Laws becomes void,  like homes without happiness. We slaughter our dreams: a human and a star. We fall, into chaos,  in love. You and me : we are examples that  everything rots,  even in love. And so we burn: another hell,  b...

There are boys who throw stones on frogs  And there are boys  who are frogs,  waiting for princess' kiss. You are the stone. And am not a princess. Am a wound attached  to the eyes of a late child. You are the a psychic who  doesn't know future.  Your clumsiness pulls me  out of gravity,  a custom so soft,  that it makes exhausting  a little beautiful. You dip your fingers  in moons grave, while  I turn in my bed, when sleep is a deceitful act. I laugh with bruised lips,  on your saturated jokes, with a reverence  I can't gift anyone else. You are the shoes  monsoons are afraid to spoil, in which my filty legs move  freely, with a frictionless ease. You are the home,  pirated from my pain,  where heart shaped chairs  are arranged in perfect cycle. You wear calloused time  as your coat in my dreams, that is whenever clouds  collapse with grief unsettled.  So, rain is a white basi...

Vocabulary is an  exhausting thing. so i think in future tense  and talk in past tense. I am a body now stripped of my plates my identity reduced to a mere whisper. I am a machine rewired and reborn my engine purring like a cat in the night. I am a thing desired and discarded my parts torn apart and polished. I am a crime committed in broad daylight my innocence lost,  with sky being a mute defender.  Tell me am not  a smoke filled code word for children turning into  legs of a refugee tenant. That am not a wind shaped device for  women who turn into fog. Not a taste bud of lost love. Not a calamity stricken desert. Or any cruel similie  that you try to interpret.

The red sun is the  dwarf tragedy of god,  because he tells it to  kneel before the earth,  which is a sole dependent. This is why poets take it as a metaphor for the lover girls, the ones that always  writes a suicide letter  as a fiery sermon  for the damned and the lost. This is why poets see God  as a teenage boy with  wine coloured hair, who  pushes down pebbles to  mouth of others in name of love. This is why poets call sea  as an unprecise paradox,  standing between god and girls,  until they decide to metamorphosis  into shells without pearls. The crows know all these  And that's why they are  sitting in spineless cemetries, not defending patriarchy and religion. That's why they gargle  meaningless words, instead of  distributing poisoned posters. That's why they take bath  in puddles of hands  that are turned towards heaven, perfectly knowing how toxic god is. That's why the...

Begin by not beginning. Don't bother about the title. Not about dedication. Or epigraphs. Don't think of meaning. Not about the body,  nor the weight of a leaf on branch. Write of the skin,  its tender places, the way it remembers, the way it forgets. Don't worry about form or structure. Let the words spill  like blood from a wound,  like water from a faucet left running. Don't try to make sense. Let the words accumulate like dust on a shelf,  like snow on a winter's night. And when you're done,  don't read it back,  don't try to make sense of it. Let it sit,  like a stone in a river,  and wait. Wait for the words to settle,  like clay at the bottom of a lake,  and then maybe,  just maybe,  you'll find the poem  you were trying to write, looking back at you. May be, just may be, you'll find a poem pressing  its silence in your eardrums,  like a painful kiss. That is, a thing that's broken a thing that's brui...

All he wanted was to shudder, To break, to move out of character. Because he is a guard dog, A ghost with mechanic eyes. His wings, a rumor, a whispered promise. I am a body,  a bag of bones breaking and bleeding. My loneliness, an axe, the wood . People like me were  supposed to be banished, who ate their grief raw,  chuckling and pondering  over nihilism. People like him were  supposed to drink  from the sweet ponds,  who kept their tongue paralysed  with meaningless prayers. Love was when  he decided to dilute  the laws of a whinny god, who was stuck at a vending machine. This was a summoned contamination , without an antidote. This was a malignant blister,  growing on holy palms. A poor revolution. A morgue for ache. A misplaced day in holy calender. Our last kiss was  hell's dark fruit, a dark blanket, a compass needle. He cut his wings,  a tragic liberation. I paste a knife, a weighting freedom. Water weeps between u...

Flowers have never despised  the rain, even when  they were getting  wrapped in watery nights. That is blindness and death  don't scare them. That is the white scar is what they keep close. This is directly proportional  to the enigma of us. We are but flowers in grave, We are but rain without lands. May be we are orange seeds stuck between throats of a war, where flowers are ironic. May be we are light oozing  from the last lamp on mother's lap, where rain is death. May be we are square roots of melancholy, where flowers are remnants of peach sky. May be we are radium burned eyes, for which rain is a dignity. So, a field of flowers  waiting for rain is a mirage we are not yet ready to encounter. That's why we find it monochromatic, realizing the woes of waiting. That's why we chew happiness, like an alien finger.