Hello poetry
Hello p**try
H'llo poetry

your 502 bad gateways are
freaking me out
I got no copies of
all my ******* man

I wander around the house
Like a heavy ghost
My room.
Turn off the A.C. and open up the windows
Faizan’s room, little brother
Mother’s
My room
It is too barren in here
The kitchen
Open the fridge; I am not even hungry
Drink some water
Faizan’s room
— What up?
— Doom
— Cool. Carry on
He sets a zombie on fire
Hoping around the mountains
Like a wounded bird

Mother’s room
Bathroom for another shower
My room
I might just be passing through the walls
‘Cause man do I not recall
Heading to the kitchen again
Older brother’s room
— What up?
— Hmm?
Exposes a red ear from beneath the headphones
— What up?
— Shut up.
Touché.
Mother’s room
— Do you want my help studying?
— Nah, I’m sleepy

My room
Turn on the A.C.
shut the window
The evening sun pours in through the purple curtains
Washing the room in a faint blush
(not that anybody asked)
…
…
Cannot sleep
…
…
Faizan’s room
— Weren’t you dying? He asks
— Couldn’t
— Ah, sad.
Kitchen
Might just make coffee
Faizan’s room
— Hey! Not here!
— Won’t spill it, chill dude.
He sighs,
Roaming around a darkened cavern
A diamond sword in hand.
He puts on a song he knows I like.
It flutters around us
Like a swarm of frightened moths
I feel I might explode—
Mother’s room
Wait, it’s night already?
But, I just had—
Perfect.
Beautiful.

My room.
The books laugh
The walls laugh, the clock laughs
I feel I might be melting
A night stands dressed up
At the end of the aisle
And I, a bride to be butchered,
Butchered, butchered
Then wed again

Time to study
(not the books,
the ceiling)
Haha.
Tricked ya.
Here, that rhymed, ******
Is this a poem yet?

(Why the hell am I in kitchen again?)

A laugh is not a pretense
I wanted to tell you that, Urooj
And maybe to myself too
Because I know you saw peeps
Of the vacancy
Nestled in my skin
And I too was acquainted
With your queer sorrow
That rises and falls
With a schedule of its own
We saw the jolly winds flirt with greyed trees
And heard many a strange talks
In golden fields of youthful wheat
And mustard flowers alive

But we ran too, didn’t we?
I pointed to the slender tree far, far away
Count as I go, I said
And count you did as I rushed
Rushed clumsily on
My feet twisting in troughs
Eye-lashes fighting dust
Twenty, you shouted, as the tree grew
But I barely heard
my body singing a battlefield

You stumbled through the ploughed soil
Hardened through suns
Crushing the remnants of harvested wheat
beneath the flat soles of your sandals
(who wears those to a field?)
Then more
Through soft, chestnut soils
Trying not to damage the baby onions
And I laughed through my burning lungs
A smoke piled up in me
Yearning to gnaw all away

And we licked the gusts singing gossips
Of sour, raw mangoes
Then relished the cool water that
You forced the earth to puke
(I still don’t get how that hand-pump worked)

And I know you sneaked along a wilted rose
From your sister’s grave
And wept, quietly sniffing
Seeing her in all the birds I pointed out
All the leaves dried to immortality
In my notebook
I too treaded through rows of childish guava trees
And struggled to will my ghosts away
I too got stranded in the insolent rays
of the dusty sun

But we joked still, didn’t we?
And when, on the way home,
I reminded you stories
Of the silly children we once lived
Your laugh glimmered all around
And mine mimicked

And the radio was ****
So we swam in our own private silences
Got lost in the rowing birds
And I know, at some point,
All the dead days
And all the rotten mangoes
Seated themselves in the car
Along with us and our shackled beasts
And the villages and the stalls and empty fields
Ran past in silence

But we had laughed
When the restless winds nearly sent me
Tumbling down the tree
And we had laughed when
The freshly-watered soil tried
To **** us under
And a laugh is not a pretense
Urooj, a laugh is not a pretense.
I wonder if we know.

Mischievous little moon
You are beautiful
I wonder if you know
Though you’re often told
(You know
You can take that hood off
It ain’t cool
You look like a squished football
or an orange rotten from one side
No offence)
But really, you’re beautiful
It is strange
I have words, but none better
Yet beautiful is so much
Mustard flowers
And bluebirds
That girl down the street and her bright-pink smile
Mother’s laugh
Myself too,
Sometimes

But I do not mean that.
I cannot compare you to Arabian Jasmines
Or Sapphire stones
You’re beautiful
unlike all
I think everything’s like that
sigh

But there’s this moment
In the middle of a breath, in the middle of a day
Unbidden
It sprouts sturdily out
Like a Morning Glory seedling
In the midst of a Mint shrub

When it drizzles
And I lose my body for a while
My eyes fixed
At the knitted pattern of the chair
Mother places scraps of stale bread
For the crows to finish
And little brother, not so little now,
Rants about his Minecraft battles
The dragons he defeated
And forts he conquered
(through massacre, but let's not talk about that)
He complains about the sun
(It is not square, and, well, it is real)
Mother complains about his complain
And, vaguely,
I hear the traffic
Four storeys below
That of cars and bikes
Gossiping and giggling
An ambulance
wailing

I think
Someone might be in it
Wincing and pleading to go faster
Or maybe silent, a still god
I think
I still have my test to prepare
I think
Whatever
**** the test
I think
That darkened bird
And its undeniable existence
Is kind of offensive  
But it’s pretty too
Rich purple peeks through that night
Blue and gold
And silver as well, a little

Mother talks about my climbing rose
That’s taking over the balcony railings
And a kite soars by
With a hoarse hiss
I think
Did I sleep last night?
Was I awake?
Perhaps, it was a lingering in between
I think
My brother looks so much
Like that crow
I think
****, dude, he really does

I voice this epiphany to him
And I get a smack
He gets one back
‘Cause mama didn’t raise a sweet
Frail butterfly
But, dude can he hit
I hit him again, which is unjust and dangerous
one must not meddle with little brothers
But mama couldn't groom the idiocy out of
Her daughter
I think
You've tickled the snoring beast
Now flea, you idiot
I run, he runs
Mother squints up in the sun
(Look who came to see the show)
I run, he runs
I laugh when he stumbles
And falls

Cement rough over his innocent skin
Clouds dripping on

It is strange
Those moments
I lurk through loudness to the quiet of my flesh
Then sneak into the noisy life within
And yearn for peace
All about
I flutter with a merry dancing
In my bones
And something weeps, weeps
Weeps on

I think you’re beautiful like that
A divinity I cannot touch
Nor see
A hymn I dare not grasp or
Or perceive
But I need not.