chaiNboli

\\Only if I had a chest, without curves of two breasts,  my voice would have been  clear to your ears.\\ 1.LOVER Daylight shrink like a cat into the buttonhole of your clenched hands,  a tender hut where flowers of late evenings bloom into a sculpture beautiful than David. My love poems will sound like the grievances of a spring cricket to your ears,  sour names that pass chills through the teeth, leading an uproar of acidic volcanic anger. Like secret betrayals of folk tales carved in the gelatin mirrors with their sides chipped. Like the cold blur thumb mark of an invasive species. Like a weapon sharpening itself for the future war. And then we will turn into two strangers with friendly smiles in a train station. For now, don't play dead.. Or don't pity the dead. 2. MOTHER  The February breeze that twirls inside your ribs won't listen to your child's cry,  like the sun is deaf to the choking of a star while it is turning into a black hole. Like the cat is...

Someone I admired one told me that my breath contains sadness. That,the way I breathe is like a dance, a foot of despair and the other of melancholy. "Why are you so sad", she had asked. I didn't know what to say.  I couldn't say a sorry for making the air surrounding her impure. I stood there, like i Iost my tongue inside a conversation and everything is my fault. May be I didn't want to be pitied. I knew she had a golden heart. That she was more like an angel than a human. But I didn't utter a word, and asked myself to wake up, so that I can try to remember that this is just a dream. Dreams as in the midnight dreams, the uninvited guests with black gleaming shoes and foggy faces, with codes of insanity puffed in their mouths _not the ones that you see for yourself. The ones that pole dance in the midst of rebellious silence of full moon nights. The ones that are beautiful and tragic as the suicide letters of poets. The ones that slip away at the very moment ...

There are actually seven thousand metaphors for everything in this world,   to the god included, according to poets who wear words as amulets, a symbolic protection. Like, The softness of breaking of a heart in love  is same as the breath of a skelton. Or same as the free fall of a satellite, hicupping old love poems, ignoring the disappointment of scientists with glass eyes. Or the sinking of a teeth into a strawberry flavored chewing gum, not at all concerned about the expiry date. Or to hold on to the claws that look like beautiful hands of a Greek god. Or to strip out of happy memories in public and to wash the clothes in private. Or to attach an extra elbow to your throat inorder to silence the anger and helplessness mixed in an inappropriate proportion. Or it is parallel train where your face is reflected on the glass window, and for a minute you think of the beauty it holds. Or it is firing into thin air, realizing that air is the best target that can be offered to...

//And if you ask me what a prayer is, It is gentle stroke of a knife on one's arm. It is the feeling of pushing your finger against your eyes.// If prayers are liquid anger feeding protests of a zero polished mind, then don't forget that the god is laughing at us , his pigmented elbows steady in round table. He had borrowed his hands from a girl who was stretching in her balcony on a fine Sunday morning. She was actually mumbling a happy birthday to herself when he challenged the wind to be mischievous enough to push her to the ground. And the wind did it actually: the people pleaser who thinks himself as the cool,bad guy. The hands were, then  smooth and soft, without an extra lump of fat. But the creator's lazyife style now made it match his torso. But if you look closely, really closely, you can see the border where two skin colours meet. If prayers are glossy poems on the thin layer of an oil paper, then remember the god is an art critic, offering his loap sided smile e...

It was tiring to always play as a mayfly with an elder god here-  Here, where soil flies under our heels, the worldof living where dead ones move. Here, the windows were open to the ocean who couldn't  bear the monitoring eyes of a lizard moving with caution, a bio version of peephole trying to make sense of all the lies worshipped. Here, the fragility of  a porcelain bowl was the free verse the floor is afraid and excited of, enchanting to make its heart flutter of the fall. Here our throats used to sneeze  thrice when we gulped down sugary milk tea, it's sea skin soft and hot and we forgot to say "blèss you". Here, we comprehended that white has many hues, just like the Stream of consciousness narrative of a failed writer in the middle of night,his sorrow caricatured in sloppy alphabets. Here, flavored cigarettes were marked by screams, ones that slip into your mouth without your consent and knowledge, terrifying yourself in all possible ways. Here, history cups it...

After they are gone, we are translations of soft violence, like nails on a cement floor, rustic and cold. We understand grief, everywhere and every time, like a child knowing the shape of mother's lap. We use our words as commodities to buy cigarettes only to put them out on our open wounds. The nausea of Camus's essays  leans towards us, waiting for the act of osmosis in a quite haze. We fold ourselves neatly, the creases caused by the weight of dreams, nearly tucked under the hands, and find that they take a lot of space, before burning them down. Loneliness has so many hues and iterations, we find, trying to build a corner for ourselves in our house. The naive carvings of the names in unanswered letters change themselves into Monets waterlilies in a cup of tea we used to have with them.  After they are gone, we pay homage to love, trying to break free but still keeping a loose thread, so even when the kisses on the lips are ready to get evaporated, we try to saturate our me...

Phosphorous blue hearts are  pollinators and pollutants, so it will be better to tuck it to yourself with bobby pins, not really waiting to be a part of thirsty whirlpools in the middle of night. The water in your shoes is a synonym of your faith, returning to you in segments on episodes of seasons when,after realizing being a God is in an act of cruelty, without mask, testify against herself. Assume your dreams are sugar cubes sitting in the edge of your tongue in a car ride to fever wails, before selecting outfit of the day- victim or predator. If you are going to cut yourself then do it tenderly, not waiting for others to tell you how you should behave when you are with yourself.