chaiNboli

Dig a grave on my sky, scattering yellow stars of a land I belong to, Unlock the doors with the canes of saints who interviewed God. May be then you will know where my home was. Let the flowers to grow on the iron gates no one ever opens,  Along with the rifles hanged by men on branches of the apricot tree, While the pride in my blood cajole the dreams to dance in a modest dress. May be then you will know what a home is. Let my breath,guarding the worshipper of my words within my memory,be chewed by the northern wind with its eyes made of green marble,  Only to let the pain rise above the red clouds of the mirror a witch lost. May be then you will understand what it means to let go. Save the moon who fell into the river, and ask the traitor what his last wish is, while between each cry he will utter his mother's name in vain. May be then you will know what life really is. Let the babies to bloom in vaccum, where happiness is betrayed over a rootless smile, and stop asking them...

When loneliness is a man, He grows beard and search for a roof under a crow's feet. He drag himself into a sigh and let a cigarette sleep on his mouth. A football dances in his feet,  like a kitten so soft but dead, In lunar glow he looks in the corners of rooms for his childhood laughs . He warms food twice or thrice, tracing scars of swallowed onions, and sleeps, but is never asleep. His curtain are bleak white, where a butterfly won't sit as a guest. His dirty laundry sleeps inside a ceramic bowl his grandmother gifted him, while moss grow between his fingers. He watches and watches,until the city lights die, stinking of kerosene dreams, Until his breath is not painful like a thunderstorm kissing a flowerpot. When loneliness is a woman,  she cuddles an earthquake in her spine and calls a void  by her lovers name. Her body finds habitat in bathroom tiles, wet and soft like a peanut shell And tiptoes into the knot  she made for her self. She queues up to buy books...

I have the skin of an apple with old wounds wrung dry. Wounds in our skin  our breath  like manholes  like pools  where we try to hide. I have the skin of a floor with ink stains craft over a poem  a floor where knees pray , A drizzle terms into a pool, And a  thirsty tongue lay. I have the skin of a fossil gazed burgainville, wilderness choped out,  sniffing for perfumes never owned, and wilting  I have the skin of a rustic wall playing under a summer breeze. Painting rainbows over porcelain petals a serpent moves, slicing the metal tongues I own. My skin is a season  where migrating birds  decide to commit suicide, letting the songs they hold in their ember beaks to go unheard. A hemlock veil, where foggy clouds of a  dream walk in two legs  not afraid of cat calls. My skin talks of stories_ orphaned and mushy,  Warm like a mushroom soup, Cold as a heart of dead. May be listen? May be touch? May be love?

There are thousand underground tunnels in the cities you walked through, you say. Dusty tunnels where woodpeckers like you searched for trees to rest. The absence of a home is what you find there. In the beads of pomegranates you carve your name, mad at all the tender flowers that are  destined to die within a week. You are fatigued sunlight kisses  so you ask ants to hug you. In the middle of a day you are drowning in the storms,   Not knowing that when you smile it is moonlight that is   falling out of your mouth. Zipping up every wound you have you say love is not an adjective but a noun. Who will tell you that there is softness even in a torn out cardigan and that's enough to Wipe up the tears of a lazy child? Who will tell you the ink spilled is a unique picture no one can recreate now? Who will tell you that you are the rain kissed coat lingering near a hot glass of coffee? Who will tell you that you are enough? Save the poem in your kangaroo pocket...

Heaven cries for a mother, Asking a returning cloud to pass the message. In the roots of the sacred trees hangs a woman, A beetle's stained slogan murmur in the air. Look at the warriors, the ones who are not afraid of bullets. The ones who are not afraid to laugh, while transforming themselves to dreamcatchers  Inside Tihar's walls. Like a wheat they die and live, Feeding hope to yet to be borns. Riding in hot air ballons they talk of world in new colours, Forgetting that they are colour blind. Icecreams taste like medicines they complain, ignoring their canines biting tongues and smearing red. Sugarcane oysters in pockets they dig every ground to find hope, blue and saggy, just like a poem lost in translation. The world blink at them with leaves gone brown, Sinking with the last of them was a mothers wish and a lover's kiss. They ask us to  Wipe our fingers on our flag, And tell to them Whom will we kill When there is nobody left. They ask us  Why should they practice ...

Sun is throbbing inside your throat, An itching, honey winged butterflies are afraid of. Your gloom is the evidence of your existence, which you caress with baby powder imported from a land you have never heard of.  Your grief is an animal wail in a human mouth, searching for a blood sputtering rose in the midst of a family gathering. Your gloom is proofreading every sentence you make,  Because she is where your syllables in a foreign accent break water in an attempt to sustain . Your gloom is a lended lip balm where chopped lips dig their nails, A shoe rack where dirty feets of planet look for a hidden God.  Your grief is a fluid you store in ducts and under the roar of pipes, like an illicit child with a cleft lip. Your grief lay map to the snow globe in the place of your mind, your neck tattooed with the stars so broken to align themselves. Your grief is like a tyrant afraid of songs, but it pleads to a cuckoo not to stop its small talk on autumn mornings. Your grie...

To whomever reading this, Poetry is the second form Of therapy i studied. The first was suicide. Are you calling me a land mine in walking? I speak in metaphors you say. I live in similies you scoff. If I say the pavements are softer  than the home, will you laugh? I collect corners of masterpieces,  A flower picker no goddess will smile at. My chlorin skin lined with blue lines, an inferno in place of chest, a polaroid brain not brave enough to forget. If i swallow so much sunlight Will i become what you want me to? I weight myself and try to take care of my grief, Just like a sparrow trying to lift an elephant, And when i smile it tastes like a Halloween candy in starving mouth. Do me a favour. Burn an incense stick on my throat, until only silence remains, until am longer a lier. If i stop inviting my lovers with stories of tragedy, will they stay a little longer holding on to my fractured fingers? Do me a favour, will you? Erase all the screams in my dreams, which i mistoo...