chaiNboli

1. Time has woven a long line between us: am not only talking of distance but the days in which silence prevailed between us. You, half moon and half poison, killing me and nurturing me.. how are you?  I think of you, and a prayer fills inside me, throbbing against my spin and cold against my heart. This is when I realize that I would sacrifice myself for you. Sometimes I take light in my hands and try to hold it, only to make myself a fool. May be that's the metaphor for us? You the light, the mighty sun and me, a foolish Icarus? That reminds me of Hozier singing : "Hold me, carry me slowly, my sunlight Each day, you'd rise with me Know that I would gladly be The Icarus to your certainty Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight Strap the wing to me Death trap clad happily With wax melted, I'd meet the sea Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight" //Sunlight, Hozier// I am still peeling my pomegranate heart , in case you return to a burning home with an empty stomach. I am s...

I have heard that  it rains diamonds on jupiter. But am not sure about it,  just like a fish,  unsure of the blueness of the sky. What I adore is the  shining dream of such impossibility. The calmness of that  three dimensional tragedy. The unkind death of smoke  it will cause. The aftermath of  clutched breath of shadow hued corals in the soil. The helplessness of an echo which disappeared before being born. The nakedness of sky  pulled over into an unfinished bowl. The forgetfulness of seeds to rise. The carving of ruin. The truth is   Jupiter doesn't fit in the mirror of my head.  Keep it in my urn, and if there is a future,  let archaeologists wonder about  the shame it holds.  Because, The world is burning,  and so am I. This means, today is a nice day  to turn into water  which decides its own state of matter .

My grief is a people pleaser,  so it opens it mouth only  while looking at the peacock eyes of night. My grief is a foolish radical,  hurting itself and  taking pride in being a carpet. My grief is a romantic martyr, snatching roses from butterflies  to impress an ignorant lover. My grief is the deer in the highway, waiting patiently for a headlight,  in empty promises of a heaven. My grief is a toothless child born under stars while pluto was dead. My grief is an uncurled finger,  which doesn't know  the tiniest grace of a slippery hug.. My grief is a fish  doing elegant back flips,  in hope of seeing miracles every where. My grief is a clown  who practices rope walk  and puts on a simple performance. My grief is blunt knife  which cuts me but  can't chase a piece of butter. My grief shows up in my door, Abruptly,   And asks me to follow. It's clawmarks, the way. The silence, so sacred. The end, the end...

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...