chaiNboli

Living is a barbaric act, So there is nothing wrong in dreaming of being a moth who lives only for 7 days. It is still a long period  to mistake death for home. To be consumed by light,  to be devoured by darkness, to be nothing more than  a whispered promise, a fragile flutter of wings against the glass. There won't be a search party Or mourning. Or chilled cries and sighs. No more crippling despair. No more longing for longing. Because history glows  in the moment of a death. Like the fever filled eyes  of Satan breaking away in God's lap.

God sent me an angel, His less favorite one. Fluent only in silence. Frenzied wings disappeared. The disowned one. So I screeched my throat and offered it to him as a prayer. It was a half embrace which saved us nothing  in the history's worst snowfall. His tenderness was afraid  of my sharpness, My famished heart was  afraid of his innocence. So I stained myself blue, Disregarding his holiness. My hunger chewed  everything in its range. I became both fire and water. He became both the pigeon And the cage. We both orphaned by the sky. We both conjoined twins, Like a pair of shoes, Like freedom and slavery. Something die in us like a meek volcano. Something live in us like a bubblegum dream. Tomorrow he will be leaving. Sunlight will be tangled in his hair And I will be licking my wounds in darkness

I have heard that  ribs of the moon are  so delicate that  it takes the mythical rabbit  in its lap to feed stories. So, it would be cruel of me  to pray for a celestial hug,  because I weight of grief  which can turn it into  an extinct poem. My grief picks scars  from pillows and buries it  inside oceans, where  the whales sing elegies  and the fish wear mourning veils. My grief is a tongue less snake, moving swiftly in the crowd  and easily in silence, mute and deadly. It is a bat, eating flowers and grass,  flying in nights with a yawn  that makes tiny joys scream. It is a root,  severed by an axe, but pretending to be a bloom, even in the days when  summer takes rest inside heaven's cup. It is a piece of my heart  sunbathing in a butcher's stand, asking to be forgiven  for everything it feels and  sighs that atleast its me,  not my beloved. It speaks to the moon in the language ...

God may be forgiving  But my mother is not.  There is a ghost her prayers can't exorcise, So she turns into a door that won't let a colour enter. This is not cruelty , But a precaution. So, she turns into a stain. It remains even when I lick my plate clean. Like a hive, it multiplies mocking the lakes I visited. So, she turns into a papaya. Bland, sweet and seasonal. Like my regret, it takes shapes it can't phantom itself.  There are pathogens who  enjoy living in their hosts, And then there are ones that  beg for antibiotics. Am both. She is both. We are, yet, not same. The hammer beats the iron, the iron turns into glass. The glass pretends to be iron, The glass breaks, There is no metaphors left.

The sea and a woman  is a literary device with long history. She as a wrecked ship, Sea as a salvation.  She as a waiting maiden Sea as the embracing hope. She as a hopeless fish, Sea as a tear stained cheek. Time hoppes with them,  there is nothing more to say. So, if you stand in the fringes of a sea,  Asking yourself the tongue twisters, dont forget that it is an opium market. And that am a flower shop. We both are conjuring methophors  poets conveniently forget. We both are baptised in grief. We both are keepers of lost things. We don't count dusks and dawns, We don't try to wrap our head in hope. Our vastness is a bruise  we press our ears into. We speaks in tongues of salt. We don't patronize orphaned letters. Instead we sleep,  taking shapes, gulping rage. So,  I ask you ; Sleep, until there is another dream. Dream until you find a god. Love the god, until you find a home. May be then you will find  how I am a burning sea, how sea is a...

There is so much violence  in a loneliness,  standing in the middle of a crowd, It's legs fixated on a delta,  silently under an exogenic force. It's eyes in search of something  that can hold its hand while  crossing the national highway. It has two umbilical cords: One of the past life and  other of a faceless lover. It keeps both, under its shirt and moves like a fish with wings. It has the freedom to choose  whether to burdened by life  or to have a fulfilling death. It laughs at misfortunes  and snarl at lucky draws, like a betrayed customer in a 50% off sale.  It's brain is a black hole, walking on egg shells, Where words are  wastes of time and  time is waste of death. It's calves are coffee stained, It's lips with narcotic aftertaste. Because, Loneliness feels lonely without your name in its mouth.

1. A running body of fever  2. A yellow halo possessing blue sky 3. Weaver of black shovels 4. Clutched breath 5. Heaviness of a dead lamb 6. Light inside torn wound 7. Variable of tenderness 8. Granularity of hope 9. Bloodied shoulder of a lover 10. Agent of shiny god 11. A bruise that blooms into a flower 12. The weight of a mother's gaze 13. A language that lives in epidemic 14. The ache of a ghostly presence 15. A beauty that cannot be spoken 16. A butchered river 17.Carrier of tombstone  18. Huge mouth with no answer 19. A flatworm tgat can shape-shift  20.Failed endeavour of a fisher man 21. Archaeologist without certificate  22. Collector of betrayed prayers  23. A tiny skelton of adjective 24. Filler of water pots waiting to be turned into wine 25. Drafter of apology letters 26. Nose without piercing 27. Pulse on jugular vein 28.Eldest daughter who knows brutality  29. Numbness 30.Twin of devil, but better