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 they try to 
enter secret messages 
about futility of hymns,
in garbage boxes, 
until they are vomited from scene.
That is why god didnt
give them tongues, 
afraid of a group of black Promethues'.
Next time you see the sun 
churning maddening lexicon,
reflect on cruelty of divine names.
Ask the stars for boys without bitterness, 
who are not afraid to cry 
sitting on mossy grounds 
where their mothers are buried.
And remember the lover girls 
who are beyond redemption.
Because they are 
harmless as a broken knife,
as a thyroid kissed throat.
Dont try to step into their 
fibre footprints:
the god is watching,
the sea is waiting,
the sharks are hungry.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am longing for death.  Forever longing for it.When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it came back to me...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more
If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...
Read more