chaiNboli

Dust dancers and grief singers  join together their hands on equinoxes, bargaining for love letters  and digging new shrines. I copy them in tobacco stains  over the walls of a place  where women with white eyes rest,  like trees tore down by winds. I have dried out my crippled words  enough to be preserved  for another century of ignorance,  so that I can say  shaving superstitions from  the head of an astronaut  fake landing on mars is  not terrible as lying about  god as a mother figure. I have been pinching the breasts of him,  to have a drop of milk  to stop me from choosing death  but he wrapped me  in blue moon precipitation.  I have been ringing the bells a little loudly,  that it enchant forest cuckoos  to stay silent than forming alliance  over eggs that won't crack. I have heard that  death of a god is the birth of a poet , just like the death of a sailor  is t...

Today is an unreliable narrator,  idly sitting under a gigantic sun  like a tropical tourist, waiting for lilac hurricanes. Today is the last strand of hair  god coloured blue , before  hammering bones of a fish  into a poet's pen. Today is the verse yesterday mimics ,  while a mine slowly dances to it,  not afraid of an explosion. Today is an escape map  weaved over sunsets, for a rebellion transparent enough to forget blood stains. Today is the coil of tragedy  sticked on to the gentle breath  of saturn waiting to be silenced  by lawful euthanasia. Today is the mute story  no one can remember because  it had no golden yellow morals  to teach both sheeps and wolfs. Today is a cannibal eating its own heart, passionately enough to call it a beautiful art. Today is the fingers over  itching scalp of a daughter  who is secretly going to cut her hair,  in response to everything she is going through. Today...

You are an atheist. And God is old man  clutching a medicine bottle. Am a polythene bag  he failed to take note of. God forgot to mention that  I was a ceramic plate in the past life,  just like he forgot to clean hunger from streets named after flowers. So I became house of my father's silence. He forgot to perform a miracle , and so an artist found drowning therapeutic. And so a mother decided to  turn into a bread in hands of a stranger. And so a little throat was silenced. And so a lover became a footnote  and another a memoir. That is why prayers should be like  knives peeling oranges, or the hand of a serial killer, or holes of a gun or pain of a barren womb or smile of a wounded bird or plundering of a holy city  or a poisoned love potion, or a mad woman in dark, so that angels can't  dump the trauma  casually over ice creams.

Memorising warmth is a thing  only poets and lost lovers do. They sit on the floor and search  for their hands for the mundane act  of grabbing a flower. They plaster forbidden kisses  in their mouths making it  a grave and a temple  at the same time. They wait for the next season,  the pilgrims of hope, only to find their hair turning into  the colour of a loap sided smile of tears. They have been skinned noiseless  inside a bath tub,  and have been sinking silently without any complaints. They have been the feudatories  of half awake prayers  which angels used as their heel straps  while marching towards resurrection. Parasites of paradise,  they crumble like unused eulogies,  when questioned about plans for future. With their fingers painted in dark blue, they wish to articulate  how shameful is survival sometimes,  without a will to breathe. Inside their pulmonic pockets,  grief follows them...

Love begins in metaphor, And ends in an anecdot. Like the soft song of a bee  excited to taste honey for the first time. Like the garland adorning the neck of a goddess who tames the prayers of a girl child according to the norms of patriarchy. Like the song of cuckoo  who is not sure about its lineage  and a home it owns. Like the sweetness of an apple in the sourness of mother tongue  Like the desperation of a river  on the October eyelids to meet the sea Like the accent of a mouth  not tired if kissing  Like the shovel of an archaeologist  in search of a hidden golden city  Like the secret encounter of an angel  with a human being, sharing recipe  of forbidden elixir cake Like the magic of lemon pickle  on your tongue after a Italian dinner Like a pebble kept by a mermaid as her namesake after losing her legs to a fisherman Like the sticky candy on the molar of a childless mother's god Like the hesitance of a beggar's hung...

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...

Jupiter peels an orange for Pluto when hailstorms were trying  to read their love letters  in backward fashion. The alphabets reminded them  of leaf stalks without flowers,  so they dropped them on the floor  as a punishment for  the smoothness they had. A boy with anecdotes in his head  found them funny,  like the soggy laugh of a bullet  mocking the birds that can fly,  but can't hurt. Like the cheap fairytale mothers cook  for hungry children whose legs were  left inside God's wardrobe. So he took them to polish  the shoes of a dictator  with stone knuckles and marble heart  hoping for a bed made up of green skin  of an extinct reptile with  dotted marks of sorrow on it. He wanted to gift it to his lover who, for the lack of metaphors,  couldn't once describe  what heart break feels like. Her vanity mirror was better educated  to know that ice-cream can  also be i-scream,  lo...