chaiNboli

I wait. I cradle sorrow in my palms like a newborn baby. It then crawls into my chest and sleeps there peacefully. A wistful child indeed. There is always a fossil trace of memory behind it. What remains is an empty colum of artery i am not afraid to slit. This is the softer way of rebellion. I have a gun as my third leg and a knife as my third thumb. So, am not afraid. (So, am not brave.) My mesh rabbit heart is a cologne smell no one can own. My god waits until the last day  of world to save me, and that's why i dont believe in him. So, am not a half believer. I have tested my blood in the litmus paper and am neutral. (God, you cant punish me). I went to the market to buy a cushion for my dead bed. So, am almost ready. I have written a poem and gave it to the rainbow. Haven't heard from you yet. So, am waiting. Am waiting.

You are bilingual. If sorrow counts, then tri lingual. You speak it in whisper, softly because it is your refuge. Sometimes you say that  Mussolini was another Picasso , who drew with red bullet pens. If so, you are an artist and an art, your skin your canvas - your fingers the brush. A red gauze over it. Other times you search under the rocks for earthworms counting their lifespan. Life and it's coral hymns. You live in the the land where heart of people is measured by the size of their smiles. Your smiles are obsolete. So, they call you heartless. And they search you. You are searching for yourself-, they don't know that yet. All day you wait. You know how to wait- in vows, in prayers, in recitations. Like the echo of a tide. You listen to rain spilling affirmations but you know that water and tear are the same, only proportions matter. Just like that everything disappear: the remembrance of a dream. You sleep in the balcony of a motel, its floor softer than your home. You sp...

Women with dead lovers are broken flowerpots sitting on the corner of room, invisible and sad. They move through the sainthood of  a broken milk teeth, a martyrdom no one find saintly but common. It is the small odyssey of ferry man's child moving to and fro in a rainbow river, where fishes sing. They do delicate patchwork over their skin at dark nights, where there was once a broken heart. Their eyes are rosary beads, rubbed smooth from prayers, holy fools rotating around new suns. Women with dead children are limericks, no one dare to read, with rhyme schemes a sparrow loves. They walk like enchanted goats in a seashore, forgetting the lillies in the past green pastures. Their freckles are just like Eve's, for mothers are same after all. They gift each other snowballs in the size of their fists, the ones that once holded babies. Children without homes search in dollhouses for a bed where they can listen to lullabies. In the park they hide behind trees, because wind carries bu...

What will you call a child who has war poems in her lineage And have two chopped dreams at the Place of her hands? One who learned to count One by her heart, Two by her legs And zero by herself? What you say to a small penguin who takes a pebble and try to build a home? One who looks at igloos with its black eyes dark with jealousy and longing? What will you tell to a pigeon who searches for poison in the water pot of your terrace? One who doesn't belong in the threshold of a therapist's office? What can you describe a knife Other than a silly second-hand? One which cries for freedom, but in a philosophical sense? How will you take care of someone whom the city bus threw out Because she mistook it for a park? What will you gift a lover who has a chameleon in the space of tongue, searching for new skies? Will you arrest the butterflies who eloped to the other side of river because they were hungry? Who will understand that autumn is when flowers unname themselves, so it will be ...

Do not judge names Even though sometimes they mean the utter opposites. Dance even if nobody is watching. Sing even if nobody is listening. Count the slits your wrist even if no body cares. There are cobwebs in the bookshelf. Kiss them. Do not dare to clean the one's in your spine for they hold memories trapped. A cuckoo doesnt had a nest. So it doesnt know how to have its own home. Sprinkle every prayer over unpeeled poems. They will taste better only in his tongue, but dont wait for him. We are always kids waiting for their favorite snacks, without realising our mothers are sharpening the knives to cut us open. \\will we lay golden eggs? No// We should feed the dogs with our tongues because hunger should be eradicated. Because unnecessary things should be thrown out. We dont know the tastes of burnt daisies. Only dead does. \arent we all dead/ Curls should not be straighted. But words should be minced./Given a choice will you drown or hang?/ Don't answer honestly when someone...

  Soul sisters, We are scribbling under someone’s dream With sunburnt teeth, just like silkworms In hope of being butterflies one day. But, we are unscrolled into a Silky silence ironed flat and kept in Pouches made of our tissues . // The sheep skins bleached, dyed and then put in the sun// We carry portable bombs in our Broken hearts and realize that There is no simple present, Only present continues tense. // Our presents are auctioned long before we are born// We make our tragedies into silly jokes And cry in the way our mothers Taught us to- silently. We tape knives into our palms and see angels melting into red coloured atoms under midnight sun. //Its Saturday night. Every saint is turning into a rapist// Our souls are so small to fit into a match box in the shirt pocket of satan or god. Every prayer our grandmothers made us chant Hang upside down in the dark, like little bats who lost their way on a school midnight trip. ...

  People like me have killed Ourselves enough with finger guns, that now we are not afraid To decorate our own graves. We are planets without rainbows, where sunsets are muted blue, moving in foreign rusty orbits. People like me tend dried mustard flowers   near fire because under the bandages our scars are still raw. Our happiness taste like egg white and when rage oozes between the pebbles in our throat we stay silent. People like me has minefields as our landmarks . so we have gifted our legs to clouds to walk through grasslands and cities. We mark our territory with Black coal pencils made from our burnt fingers. People like me are hopeless romantics adoring long lost lovers with payers that remain unanswered. We have our mouths numb with heartbreaks So how can we taste sweet kisses and love? People like me wrap the shoulders of butterflies in fur hoping to become toothless like them so that we can stop chewing grief. ...