chaiNboli

I have heard that  when a poet falls in love, It feels like drowning,  like searching for a immortal grail. The water becomes a metaphor  as well as an oxymoron. Like the shrieking mouth of a mayhem, It burns and distills. May be, thats what you did, Virginia, May be you fell in love. You looked at the nails of history,  growing into a disgusting dome and  decided to free yourself by letting the river's languid tongue lick the stones of your soul,  worn smooth as a shingle, by surrendering to the currents. In the photographs,  your eyes are  two dark pools,  already brimming with the sea that would eventually  claim you,  a solitude so profound,  it became a kind of marriage to the waves,  a union of mutual undoing. The weights in your pockets,  like two cold eggs, Like first moon of holy month, laid by the river's own dark hand, pulled you under,  a slow descent into the weedy depths,  where the water's dum...

There is a room where God sits like a father of drugged son or a run away daughter,  and scribble congratulations  to the martyrs for  keeping up their insanity  till the last minute. The fault lines of his head are left unoiled, like the rifles hidden on backpack of a depressd teenage boy. His hands moves like a bug  inside a glass bottle, circling  with bandages of an artist. Like a sea on a city in wall. His walls are wails  no one really cares about, melting like an egg yolk over a pan. Like a red dress dancing in rain. Like euthanized dreams. He doesn't tell you that Birth is a disaster,  Life is a disease and  Death is happiness. So, you proclaim yourself  as leader of broken hearts, soaking in censored sunlight, without paying tear ducts for working overtime. You are more woe than wonder, more fragile than fulfillment, more patchwork than perfection. That's why god snarled  looking at your Christmas letter.

I have read that the memory span of a goldfish is seven seconds. In that case we are two humans desperately trying to be  orange fins. Life is the purring cat looking at us. We swim in circles,  devoid of emotions. We try to polish silver pearls,  with our rusty hands. We hemorrhage with a hunger, After collecting stardust from wounds. We stitch torn parts of the pond, where silence was oozing out. We envy a crow for its wings And an ant for its legs. We don't remember  the cloud that hide behind rain, the scarlet of roses and existence of traditions. Neither the shame of kiss  Nor the weight of knowing. And atlast we float in the water, aimlessly and draining colours, then where did all the memories go?

The morning after you killed yourself, your mother stood in the kitchen, her shoulders a map of sorrow, etched with the fine lines of grief.The scent of stale coffee clung to her like a damp shroud. In the counter, her hands moved with the precision of a cartographer while the yellow pigment of turmeric seeped into the knife just like grief into the skin of our stories. It stained her long fingers, carelessly and a little maniacally. Her fingers, wrinkled and worn, handled the root with a gentleness that belied the turmoil that must have been raging within. But it was a futile task, a gesture devoid of meaning. The turmeric was already grated, already powdered, already scattered on the counter.  I watched, transfixed, as the turmeric piled up on the counter, a small mountain of yellow that seemed to mock me with its brightness. It was a color that seemed to belong to a different world, a world where joy and laughter still existed. But in this kitchen, surrounded by the oppressiv...

Flowers are not flowers anymore. But the shoes bees can't afford. So, they melt on the summer heat  and take birth as nocturnal children  without parents. They take up the space  without much to do,  like plastic bottles, like ideas of a dead artist. They get shooed away by  elite icecream coloured hands  and when they die again they tranform to shutter soul of a camera. A mouth is not a mouth anymore.  But the dome where propaganda rests. So it turn to a stone which mocks a bird for its ability to fly. It warms the cold feets of pseudo intellects,  like blankets, like the last drop of water in a desert. It gets insulted by snakes  warming up for a tournament  and when it reincarnates  it takes form of a father's silence. A lovers kiss is not a kiss anymore,  but a murder under neon lights. So it escapes wild flowers and turns into a red lamp in your room. It twirls into a abstract absence, like a blind promise,  like the ...

A strange god recalls his past lives,  with the gleam of cat eyes. Once he was a dancer  kneading bread in a whore house, humming lullabies to bastards,  when their tongues burned of childhood, which is why he got softened with time. Then he was a Buddhist monk who tried to find a substitute to prayer in solitude, afraid of breaking the rules,  who ivh is why he grabs  a sacrificed lamb with red greed. He was once a leaper  with bloodshot eyes of a massacre, resurrected by another god,   which motivated him to be a god. He was also a deaf dog, who was not afraid of thunder which is why he doesn't care  about dead reflex of reverence. He was once an orphan kidnapped by a pirate, who was  then taken as hostage by the sea  which is why his high induced eyes can stop a storm. He was once the front door  of a family home, kept ajar  from women who wished to leave,  which is why he lends his ears  to a mother's prayer....

Defeated fingers of a writer  gets lovestruck when a tragedy happens. That is if a desperate girl  chooses a rope to die, not to play, then a poet sings:  Run you desperate thing,  and put a letter on the box  outside god's ancestral home. Paint a part of your algal mind,  so that I can slip a rotten apple. That is when a heart is broken,  all its red turning to blues, then a poet whispers:  Detest the taste of first kisses,  with false promises of next summer. Walk like a toddler so that  I can mend nature's laws. That is when a war rages,  with silver spoons modified into arrows, then a poet laughs: Find peace in tea leaves,  when a civilization disappears as smoke, So that I can clip my nails  to take care of a socialist cheek. That is when a mother decides  to sell her blistered footprints  to a museum,so that she can  buy her child's milk, a poet sneers: Burn the birth chart of oysters  that will o...