There, she lies on the altar
Almost held the sun she—
almost in her hands
Opened up, a rose-bud chaste
petal by petal by blood, with
a sting, oh, so sweet and sweet, as
sunset reborn a bee; she was
gold and silver and black at once.

Almost held the sun she—
and no wax wings used
Oh, Icarus, loved you did a wild sky,
— yourself a light-licked doom  
as your father cried,
Your father cried for you.
A veil, as purity, as tear-coated eyes, she wore
as wings of wasps
as beetles she giggled—

Icarus, flew that you,
—and with tongue-tied elation too
Icarus,
she rambled on for hours long.
A letter she held in spring kissed of hands
—I will wed you to the sun,
her father had sworn.
The sun—and oh a sun he was,
child of the sea, some sword in honey
dipped; now her awaiting.
And blushed she did herself a dawn,
a fall's first bronze, a flicker's
childish song—

The altar, on the altar.
Almost held the sun she—
Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin.
Icarus, tell me of the plummet.
Tell me of the greens you saw,
of blues, of whites,
of the whirling world—

Men tread around around her
their leather-hard soles all ready
to crush lost skulls an empty moor.

Twirling,
the dust, like may have, her hair
before the wedding day
Strands and strands, gently styled—
Of rays of stars, blurry through clouds,
of boughs, of wings of swans.

Spears, swords,
rubbed and rubbed to mirrors,
to lakes' lifeless serenity.
Armours, and ships laden with life, with
sails, the fluttering doves;
As the winds dance once more—
as harbours vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as
She still lies.

Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean
that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in
as down into the dark's slick throat you slid?
Surely, was soft
the sea's well-loved mouth,
Surely soft or true

She lies on the altar
a trinket glossy
on a hoof, a ****** in the bell,
how does one say—
the valley of lilies, she grew it inside.
Spilled out on the stones, they are fed
to the flies.
Almost held the sun she—
Icarus, must you know

You did not sleep a wretched silence
within the womb of war.
No crescent blades you drank
down a leaking throat—
She lies on the altar,
Vanquished for moon
— for metal upon bone
for blood, for blood, for blood.

A father’s green promise—
Seasoned to rust before the king
a wilt, a quiet; a plucking, a rustle, a quiet once more as the shore is cleaned—
a speck of brown among
a thousand more
beneath the feet of the sky.

Icarus, on the altar she lies—
as insects swarm about
a ripened land far, far away—
Icarus, Icarus,
on the altar

I am made of infatuation, shame and forever gloom
You could not fall
This is not the chessboard of your dreams
No pawn makes—
No bishop makes
The queen takes, is taken an equal
This is not an aisle of rebirth
Or some sombre remembrance
It halts, it halts
The numbers lessen
I did not abandon, I am still here
Yet, a halt lingers
Like death stuck on the precipice of throat
A life of a single lifetime of a thought
I am energy, a little restless
But restless so out of the nature of self
Like the eye of a rook
On the king through a rook

A stupor unblinking
Like a sharpening of a dream
The knight-slide like an Arabian sword
The king scuttles
Rook takes rook, king takes rook

I fancied myself a manly dream
But it doesn’t work like that, does it—
The game writes, and children play
Now I wait the shameful minutes away
(And I watch you hands, so patient, simple
Say, are you dead or pleased?)
And I watch your hands
I should’ve looked up when I had the chance
Now the brooding leaves
And my eye hardens
Father, you have won
With a dream so well, you played just right
I should have not worshipped the pawns like that

Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you

You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true

Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art

Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed

No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back

I never learn, I never learn
Keep mourning your ashes in the golden urn
You were the dawning sun opened wide
A purity I slaughtered for the god inside

I never fade, vague as fog, I never fade
Into the scarlet waters, I wade
Dusk weeps and deserted I wait
Wait, I wait, O timeless Patroclus, I wait

A thousand ships, all united, set sail
To free their heavenly queen and her veil
A thousand ships I could’ve let burn
Into the wretched battle had you not run

Rambles, rambles on this silent sea
Your extinguished heart will hear not a plea
You took all the humans in me along
This bleak divinity, worth not a single song

Never not do I hope, never not
I hope, I hope, in this despaired hope I rot
You lurk a painful past in my unseeing gaze
As rows upon rows of men I raze

In the halls of living, I search for your name
Your love-licked body I surrendered to my flame
I hear your starlit lips yell at me to stay
Achilles, Achilles, live, you ****** sun, they say

All my charismatic promises I forget
This wish, sweet moon, you shall not get
I tear then my heart in search of you
A river red as doom, and a stillness blue

I am here, Patroclus, now spare me this lone
My frenzied ghost screams soundless on
Our ashes kiss and kiss in the golden urn
I never learn, alas, I never learn

White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern

When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue

The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves

She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor

Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck

She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress

In the bookshelf,
Behind easels,  pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table

A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her

Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness

Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden

Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as

She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors

Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show

Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around

I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws

All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay

Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world

Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.

A laugh is not a pretence
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 olden 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 pretence
Urooj, a laugh is not a pretence.
I wonder if we know.

painting is butchery
is beautification of breaths

as they bubble hastily out

sometimes mad
like suddenly breaking glass
or pond

sometimes springs
tinkling down stones

painting is thunder
slowly rising
or the perfect fury of it

I hesitate, stuck astray,
as the hues awaiting
wait

reap or harvest, must I burn or
decorate?

but, tentative, I breathe
inevitably on

and suddenly
it is all here

Where have you gone, little child
—my little child
You told me all your secrets
but never told me your plans
and was it nothing to you?
—all those golden weeds we plucked
and laughs that bloomed
I should’ve built you a castle out of it all—

I should’ve covered the windows with dry leaves
and letters
I know well of the temptation, but
what was ever so promising in that hazy night?
My little bird,
didn’t I teach you how to fly
didn’t I adorn your feathers with petals
—and poems
I wrote tales for your wings and
Will this be your repay?

What of the endless hills we sailed over
All the gleaming waters we kissed
I should’ve built you a kingdom out of it all—
We could’ve been queens of a starry land yet
here we are

I sit with the weeds, they chew away our lilies
you have long run away
with the dark
and the world is dry—
the world is dry without you.

innocent blue
it’s not the truth
it’s just the story I tell to you

say, gone now
all the old times forgotten
we flicker away in bliss

roll the dice
select this, forget then
never let it go then

I was just bored
watching the night
I had it all, I had it all

I need it now
covered in fade, taken from me
rolled up and stored

artefact of old
I want so much to hold
I become small again

I begin to hear too much again
see too large
speak too thin again

now it sits by
in pieces renewed
pretty and gold

hope that you find it
hope that I too
could find it for you

Strike— bare, boastful light.
Snakelike, your silver serenity
Strike with firm, flaunting fatality
Surrender then, to specks flush-light.
Split asunder, your thriving fragility
Shuddering then, a humble complexity
Shimmering so lovingly bright.
Spin I the crystals; your dancing simplicity
Simplicity— oh, so generous in its creativity
Scarce old stars rather I,
                       than sun’s lifeless white.

I am lost, and the cave is blue
All facets of it, some faded, some sure
Crystal tears flicker on the jagged
White eyes, the stones speak nothing
Merely blink as the turnings of lights
In keen grey wells of silence
My life, as a ragged brush, paints
The night to be raw and torn
Leaves the canvas blank for a moon
Throughout the sky are pinned
My letters to the world, flip-flopping
As wild wind horses hop about them
But in the day, in its darkness
I can recall nothing of the colours
The walls scuttle away from me
And the cave, though endless, shrinks
I sit down into the shape of an insect
And feel the firm embrace of lone
Of stone, I begin to feel myself of stone
I rush to the waters, they rush to me
Bleak blue turns me over, takes me
Through months, I sail its roudy mouth
Blissfully unseeing and faceless
Until the coin of the sun flips
And blackness washes everything clean
The sea still, sags to rock, entombs
Itself and me. I am lost, and the cave
Is blue

Still they lie on the river-bed.
Unforgotten; daughters of the sun
their itching, prickling, stabbing beams
And dusks that ran ran red
But tread on, the circus just begun,
The ripples— mote by mote— by seams

The sands stir and rocks twitch
Dull-eyed creatures still non-living go
Roses bloom, say, roses rise
Once lively dawns to sacked towns switch
Body and body and body we sow
Roses bloom, say, roses rise

Say, still they lie; still sessile
Of tens a blooming heart we plucked
Still some more we knew as our own
Stumble on we desperate while
Lie we still in the river-bed tucked
Oh, those parched pieces that once shone

and these wretched blooms undying

minaret, matte in haze
an illusion of detail
you, Impressionism
your bricks clasp each other
intricately, intimately
without hesitation or sense

lips of red and suave craft
tilt:
pyre suddenly

I step back

I can fathom you
from here only

Mist, dew and rose.

Three songbirds rose
Their wings quiet—
Weaved a riot—

Breath, then bone and blood
Whispered to noise from, for mud
Let them grieve, let them—
Yet another young note
On the hard-baked stem.
Restrained do not

Cry
Nor bleed or melt a flushed blue
Pearly melodies of sky
Do no do, do not do

Ask of liberty—
Pretty, petty property.
What of birds?
Clumsy drip-dropping words

Only a breath weeps
Only bone shakes
All ballads, the blood keeps
Only the carcass wakes

And silent, silent goes
Into the blooming blue goes—

Here I lurk
Clutching my shadow
In my fists
It shivers, shrivels, sighs
A flame shushed to silence
On its ashen throne
Here I grasp
Grasp the oozing, burning night
That drips down my fingers
A palm beneath a palm I place
A palm beneath another
It the creamy tiles kisses
And will come to me no more

A rumble wobbles
around the room
Of laughs and talks
And talks
However do I mingle
In these faceless folks?
However do I fathom
All these massless worlds
Orbiting around ecstatic tongues
That birth them
Birth them on and on
Birth them meaningless, and birth them blind

I think,
Maybe when the flood dies out
I think,
Maybe then I will see
Pick up the shells this land could not drink
And read the tales preserved
In their wounds
Maybe the drunken ghosts
Serving all these brightly dressed drinks
Will approach me too—

Not yet though
Not yet

I pull little hymns out of my throat
Roll them around in my mouth
It is there they sway,
There they wilt

A gaze chained to my eyes
Wanders about
Like an injured fly
On one face it rests
On one chuckle stumbles,
A crack skipping down the wall
A high-pitched laugh blooming
In the corner
There is a bleakness, believe me
In this world

A bleakness so pitiless and rotten
Its stench covers all that is born
All that is not
All—
There is a bleakness
And I often mistake it for my own
But I do not now
It is there in every eye
In every corpse hanging between the ribs
It grows up like a sturdy ****
On arms and legs and
Bones
Up and down the aisle it flows
In this classroom twinkling
with childish mirth

Up and down
It pats heads and laughing cheeks
It is there
It is there
And will not still
Will not stir either

I think,
I must warn them
These energetic faces trying
to resurrect joy
From the flesh of stories all skinned alive
Warn them
I must, I must
But the words pile up
And floods pile up
One upon the other thousands
And I lose myself somewhere

The chatter blends in with the chortle
And I cannot tell
The shadows imagined
From cloaked figures swaying around
I would warn them, believe me
Warn them I would
If only
If only I could grasp hold
Of this darkness
That mimics me everywhere I go
Ghost of a black lamb
I once sacrificed for
A purity I loved to violence

And longing never became
A shackle so well

I think,
maybe when the flood dies down
I will breathe,
I will breathe maybe
Here we lurk
A slave upon a slave rests
A slave beneath still
Two ghosts I birthed,
Two lambs opened up,
One will not love me
And one will not not—

Practiced pain and misery memorised
A shawl swirling round but nothing is covered
—nothing safe
Little woman—

Why do you roam so free on these greasy roads
People—
people are everywhere, don’t you see?
Do you not know how easy a shell is broken
—how swiftly the pearl is stollen
Little woman— little woman
Where do you hide your crystal wings—
Did you sell them for some loaves of breads?
Don’t assure.

Your eyes bear no tragic fruit and
I wish they did— Lord, how I wish so!
Anything but this casualty
Placidity—
Have they long forgotten
the sky-high castles they were robbed from?
All those moon-struck crowns—
Don’t, don’t assure!

Don’t spread out that hand
Don’t show me that tight stomach
I beg you don’t show them that
stomach—waiting to be filled—
Where in the hell do you sleep?
Don’t you have a door to lock?
Don’t assure—

You priceless, prince-less little woman
Why do you roam so free on these greasy roads
Why do you beg? Why do you—
I wonder why I ask— I with my flowers and bees
wonder what I even know—

some secrets up the clouds
some gatherings that gleam

lie, artefact
chipped a statue

moving
like the watery movement of a sea

a thousand thoughts
furl unfurl

coral tunes
fish word, hues

as the curtain thins
thins

satin sky
silver sun

swift the whistlings
of drunken clumsies

and stout their wings
with merry and night

gentle
on stone body

that moves
watery

Roused in fanfare, these facets
are full of scantiness,
of cold-***** futility, of bitter thanks

The light turns, morphs them
now they are faces, now limbs
now rancid rag houses again

Crooked sun gurgles, spits a fraud spring
and the office men observe their machines
straight-backed like chairs, they droop
rampant on scarped brown desks,
desks with picked-nail edges, so brown
no one sees them, so solid one forgets to

The sky runs her threads again
accumulating: stagnant noon, sitting
spread-legged, with wax-paper eyes
it watches, watches the aging

Slowly, everyone leaves
the formal men, their leisurely burlap work
lights blink as if to bulwark tears, and
the foul remnants of day's charred pleasure
begin to settle on skin.
the wrists thin, some nails cave in
some lichens on stone-nose

Things that elude cuddle elastic back
into the things they elude
and, spent, the sky breaks at last the thread
to another demure death:
glitchy and green, riddled
in its own secrecies,
dry-lipped as a crone

The light turns again
and this time, it is perfect:
just past the critical angle,
where bustle-bundles of beam
flee unfettered
and leave unlit the grateful subject
reticent, stale
bold in a boastless brood

only a singular fissure
of pretend slight
to mourn aloud in the spectacle of black

I begin to end where the song begins
Little rain plays the earth, birds learn
Little facets light to mimic the sea
The crumpled sheet of the sky
Seems to sink slowly upon my land
The fortress offers a generous view
But my people are busy in their work
And I am busy in the watching

Sweet. Sweet. It is a stumbling
Sweetheart, walked up through the night
I break down, I break down altogether,
I stutter as lightening within the clouds
And the thunder of my disquiet
Pounds against the sun. Everything
Everything, everything incites me
To climb up the watchtowers, invites me
To join a hand onto hand, and
Scream myself open to the world

Think the saddest thing about this land
Is how hard it tries to live
To hold, to let go— how it
Stills in the middle of a catastrophe
How it sings
Only when no one’s about to hear
How its silence
Is never wholly true

How the clouds go by
And the suns
The crescents grow up and pass
And people—
Yet it, shuddering, remains
And how it struggles
To weave peace out its
Wavering fields

And ever-dancing cities—
The dance of a Persian woman
In shackles
How it slaughters its own flowers
In search of their seeds
How it breaks apart
In the middle of a night
In the middle of a little girl’s question
In the middle of a smile

How the maidens
Keep on hanging their dresses to dry
And children keep hunting
For helpless worms
And snows melt into grasses
Till they too sail away
Yet it, shuddering, remains

How it will gnaw away the town
It carved itself
Feast upon its own beautiful bones
How hard it struggles to stir
In its own queer death
And how it will wither
And wither, and wither
And not tire—

It is its own hateful god.

in this classroom
words are hurled

in air,
the grotesque pencil scribbles.
in air, monstrosity
colour and colour to brown monotony

briefly?
talks tide
throats oscillate
leisure is an angry child
wreaking havoc on paper

listen, here,
just a halted breath:
air thins
page on page does not bleed
but it tears alright

Did you weep too?
when we put down our cups of hot tea and joy
they seemed to speak to the wavering air
some reticent secrets of themselves or us
I thought: death is like my father now
it names me, not after, for itself
and I smell the petalled incense of its security
security…
Security. Security.
I thought: we are written
you pull right, and I pull to left
and we go stumbling forward to papa
I thought: I am a cold bottle put in the day
I wipe my tears, and I smile at the beautiful sun
and then again, I wipe my tears, and I smile at the beautiful sun
Did you whimper?
sweetly like a child
I could have loved you if I wasn’t afraid
You say: I am always afraid
You say: it is my excuse for everything
You act so brave, you think I do not think
I have seen you in the velvet dark
crystalline eyed and thin,
not yet the woman that becomes my sin
You are just like me

I thought the eyes would swell and mama would know
so, I stopped and quietened
breathing like a valley, sniffing like lizards
We heard the city sing by
I thought: it is like a train
its tail hooked to the nose, it moves in a circle
and we are in it
Say, do you recall at all?
not more a nigh to pass, but the sentimentality fades,
and we ought to go

Say, stay?
Say, stay for a dance
However pained– a waltz of held-hand and shoe
I will try not to tremble
like that acrid tongue of forever time
Now your forehead gleams with the smear of gloom
and we are wont to let it dry
wont then, to become canvases
wont then, to hide them away, in slots of unlit places
(like ******* or... palm-on-palm or... in between bookshelves or lip)
with so many others
Remember that one? Then that, then that, then that
when we wore our shameless dresses of terror and shame
and we cursed the holy heavens of youth,
when we fought, when we fought, when ran like laughter
There was so much grief
I thought: it will eat us
I thought: I will never escape this
this name that papa wrote
on the paper of my breath
we will always be here, babes, fumbling in shawls
and pleasing the house
plaint and faint and so much like fear

Did you weep too?
I was astray in the street, I couldn’t quite see
I could’ve kissed you like the girls on TV
but mama was everywhere, and she was dressed in papa’s shadow
She said
She said—
She needn’t say anything at all

Say, did you weep at all?
I said I was afraid,
I said then so much of it, I forgot of you
Say, I don’t think you did.

Wilted jasmines look like popcorns
… that wasn’t very poetic, right?
I was just watching the bushes sway outside my window.
There is no wind today
Just the hot air breathing
I have turned on the A.C. and the fan grumbles quietly

I feel as if my heart is in my stomach
Huh.
**** it,
I really am forcing it out today..
Whatever
I rested my palm on my stomach
As Faizan’s strange playlist chattered nonsense
Outside the blanket shroud I had built
Around myself
And I could feel the beat
The rhythm
Like a drum or a gong
I don’t know why it matters to me
Maybe because I feet as if nothing else does
Right now
I know that sounds exactly like something
A sentimental teenager would say

I don’t know
I want to talk to myself
A heart-to-heart
I want to ask that *****
What is going on
What is wrong
What the **** is wrong, girly!?
I want to hear her ramble on about stuff
Be bored of her talk, but feel kind of happy
That I’m the one she’s confiding in
I wanna give her a hug
To show I don’t have words good enough for comfort
Which I probably do
But am too lazy to fish them out my gooey head
(Besides
I think the poor **** needs a hug)

I wanna zone out and nod along to her words
Just so she can let it out for once
But that *****’s a *****
She acts tough and all smart
But she’s a sappy preteen girl inside
I say,
“Yo, Ayesha, you can cry, you know—”
And she goes,
“Yeah, I know.”
A flip of that inexistent hair
That she long ago butchered
And, bam, she gone.
She tells me
"Yo, Ayesha, you can cry too, you know?"
"I know" I tell her.
I don’t know what to do
So I lie around
Feeling this stupid ***** dance in my stomach
In my wrists
In my temples
I run my fingers down my neck,
Feeling for the echoes of the gong
That keeps talking, talking, talking
Untiring
As if calling me to my people
gathering us together for a battle
that is yet to be fought
yet to be fought—
yet to be ******* fought

And, hey, my
Money plant doesn’t even look rich
That *****—
(Hey, I got a rhyme!)

Do you sense it?
The little men
are mixing up a stew again
They are chopping their children
And grinding all the toys
Breaking the women and
Breaking them on
They will peel colours off the swings
And shred them to debris

Do you sense the moons all hiding
Covering up their silver eyes
And the night is angry
It roars and stomps—
A drunken frenzy; it fights
Its own decayed, black being

Oh, Palestine
You and your fidgeting hands
Fingers fight fingers
And skins are ripped
fingers fight fingers still—
There goes the ballad you never sang
There goes the ballad
You sang all around
There go the plastic dolls
Chaste slingshots, fruits never shot down

Oh, Palestine
You and the lightning
Stumbling through the clouds
You, your tumbling birds—There goes the wind
Mourning a violence unmourned
There goes the silence
There goes the noise
There, all the paintings
Eulogies etched in whispers unfathomed
And there go the stones
Cold and blank

All plunging within the gaping mix
As the *** sits quiet
Upon a fire
Birthed from their own white bones
The little men
are cooking up a stew again
Sprinkled with gold, with ashen stars
It boils and burps
A viscous storm
Never to come
As the *** sits quiet all night long

Oh Palestine,
You, your lovers
Lovers and the rest—
When in the morning
The flames are tired, and bones
Bones no more
The stew will still be stirring
With winds raging on
And no one will be left
No one will be left

With winds raging on
No one will be left

Oh Palestine
Where did the little men go so wrong—

words elope
perhaps all alone
in nights sweet
and nights black

I am a child
fumbling my hands
on the faces of land
and the world topples
bounces about

this trembling scrawl
tentative almost
as the rickshaw
coughs and shakes

I don't say when I say
I am in love with words
sometimes the dance
sometimes song
sometimes the people
they carry along

I don't say— I don't say
I watch away
it is the child that writes

In you I left a little kiss
A speck on lip of lip.
Like a leaf may
On a leaf spring-coated
Before it slides off and off
And into the brown below.
Like a star may,
On the window of a house
Cold in houses cold.

I lingered by the shores of you
Dried, a bone,
Memorising the hues of
A sweet, sweet marrow—
In sun it glittered, in moon sang—
In you, in you, you.

This restless room—
And ants devour around
With their fast steps and abdomens angry
And a scene of us
Through deep, hardened dirt, I dig out:
You held a garland, of foliage weaved,
I smiled a kingdom
All alive and gold.

And the young leaf will forget
Of the rusty feather
That stumbled past it,
One young dawn—
And the house
In houses lone,
Will sublime
In the day’s pretty love, but

In the blue, a bottled letter—
Too small a gift
For an illiterate sea, but
Hold it it does still,
In its secretive embrace.

So, when you born
To an arid tree—
And in blood of stars I wade
As down descends
The sky we built,
Do not cut open the insects
In your frenzied search for me—
All the kingdoms
Could I smile
In you I left with their riches and green.

Dried, a bone, I
Remember the hues
Of a sweet, sweet fruit—
In blooms it blooms, in stars
On frosted windows
In you, in me, you.
So, when I sway
In this lovely quiet,

You sway too
In the dawn.
And born you
Then born you
And reborn on a spring—
In you lives a little kiss
And wilt you,
It wilts.

Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!
but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

But...
sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch


Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand


Or maybe...


No, put it away
we are done for the night

Sombre heaven, you look just right in pink
Clothed and cloaked, silken limbs of ancient lore
Everything droops round the drape of your lace
My eyes stumbling lurking, running, returning

I will - I could take anything miniscule
Bare minimum, pitiful, pathetic, muggy
Bitter rain - but you refuse to yield, just like me
Is this why our touch fails so simply?
Because we're too similar for revolution?
Defeat has me nauseous, mildly in love

Sweet, sharp, a little painful, a little blue
You leave no scent when gliding by

The madman watches from the pores of the city
Housed tightly like a life in the confines of chest
Sky howls and lures it outwards, bulbous and beating
The windowsills loosen their grips, hang pitiful
On the precipice, as a blind disquiet looms
Silence yawns, and then chaos sneezes
Opening wide the madman's heart
Then, a big rumble wakes the streets as he prepares for riot
People-pupils jig in their pools
Exuberant at the disturbed show
Almost, it seems, that a thousand past sunsets
Might flip over the world
And walk unleashed as man upon man
As man among men in song has done

Almost, but the moment sags again
And the sordid stillness bars everything-

The dust storm
Whipped the world red
Trees all freaked out, I and my brother
We climbed up the solar panels
On the roof
And laughed
In the face of the sky

The city swirled
With the drunken stars
And lights bled
In our flooded eyes
Laughing does that to you
We did not weep
For the sky did
And darkness
Was a horde of wasps let loose
It devoured our sweet,
Ripened day

I grabbed his wrist
And spun him around
Our feet kissing
The grumpy, old ground
We blended
Like ink in milk
Stirred round and round
And round ran the heavens

We laughed
Laughed our stomachs
To painful exhaustion
And the gusts hissed on
Rain sneaked down our clothes
Ran soft touches
All over

Do you ever settle down
On the edge of the world
And watch the beautiful
Oblivion chase itself?
Do you ever laugh
Even a dog moves on from its tail
After a while
Or whisper
“Will you not stop? Will you not stop
For I am here
I have climbed a thousand peaks
And slaughtered many a ravenous
Creatures
In the valleys of time
to get to you
Will you not stop?”

A gust of hues.

It says something
And you grasp it, you
Grasp it almost
Almost
But what is it
If not an oblivion?
Unfathomable

And a voice comes
From around, inside or
Maybe somewhere in between
Maybe
Maybe nowhere at all
It ruffles your hair
And pats your cheek
Have you forgotten your place
Little human?

Winds then shushed
The clouds away
From their beloved sun
And gold gleamed
Up, below, and in between
Every pearl that plummeted,
Blushing
I watched the sunset
Peep out the night
And I wondered
If rain was overrated

Have you forgotten you place
little human?

Because when the euphoria dies down
And cold begins to bite
You watch the raindrops
Beat the world to silence
And day breathes its
Last laughs

You wonder
“What now?” What now?
You wrap an arm around an arm
And shiver
What now?
Even a dog gets tired
Of whirling

What now?

Nothing,
The hues whisper
Now sit on the edge of oblivion
And we will do our magic

And maybe the world
Still chases its tail around
But you forget
For a breath or two.

i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
clocks tsks—
and cars, outside, laugh
lamp paints shadows on the walls
and the chocolate melts
—a flute sings
and winter settles on the floor
the fan hangs still— still— still.
a bear snores in her cave
and baby owls, with their moons, watch—
a river hisses meekly
and crops bow before the night
air chokes on gold
—and crescent yawns
the clock tsks— the clock tsks
i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
the clock tsks.
the clock tsks—

I think I let this blueness overflow a bit
Mother’s being tender again
She talks to me like a bee does
To a sleepy sunflower
And does not mention the missed classes
Does not remind me of the exams
She says to me
‘Ayesha,’ she says,
‘Ayesha, you brood too much.’
And I know mother.
And she jokes that she might have to
Burn this notebook I keep scribbling in
Because it does not make me happy

She says to me,
‘I know you’re brooding when you write
And all that writing makes you grey.’
She says she’ll have to throw it out
In the street
But I know she never will
She’s too tender
Too tender, my mother.
I think, ‘Will I have to myself then?’
And I think, ‘How many will I throw?’
And I think, and I think till the sun
goes down

But I brood when fairies are on their way
To the stars
And mother,
Why are dead things always the scariest?
Sorry, I know I’m supposed to be
Focusing on these Orbital radii
But I can’t stop, mother
The atomic structures
Keep mingling with dragons
And their pretty eyes

Mother’s being soft again
I am a little child stumbling up the hill
And she never asks me to help in the kitchen
But when I wander around
Light as a wind
She lets me chop the vegetables
I do
There goes an onion, so quiet
Chop, chop, chop
Mother, do you think if trees bled
We would still butcher them to pieces?

Chop, chop, chop
Mother, who carved this goddess out of my name?
It feels heavy now, wings mighty and huge
I can barely stand this mortality
Chop, chop, chop
Mother, does it not pain you
Seeing all the coriander dry in the pots?
The dirt that birthed it from a quiet seed could not keep it alive.
How are you so strong?

Mother, mother
It reminds me of my Morning Glories
Last year
They bloomed so happily every morning
And they’d wilt by the evening
And the next day
The slender plant would make more blooms
They kept dying, mother
All of them
On and on and

There was nothing I could do
Nothing the stems could do
I watered and watered and watered, they kept dying
Born to wither
And in the winter, when the sun wasn’t as cruel
Cold did the job
And all the leaves fell down
empty plastic wrappers, they were
And I pulled the hollow vine off the railings
We burned it that night, I and Faizan
The fire ate away what was left, and
Ate herself when nothing was

chop goes the last lamb
I sacrifice a lot to my wolves
The sparrows outside ask me why I do not talk
I do, mother, don’t I?
I talk a lot, a lot, a lot, my skin gets tired of hearing
The silence hops around the kitchen,
a mad cat

Mother wipes the heat off her forehead
The stove whispers on
‘You’re brooding again, Ayesha.’
‘Whatever, I told you it was not just the poems.’
Everything’s a poem to you, Ayesha
No mother, I’m just tired—

Old friend, I have forgotten the ocean
Sailing restless on my fidgeting boat
Keen blue makes my meek blue weep
Sky is an atrocity, descending all night

The unsightly faces of men
Become my only comfort
As I lull myself to sleep
Counting down the stars
Crawling nearer, nearer

Alabaster hands
I paint like I know you
but I am afraid
I paint like I know
the hours of holy songs he sung
when chip by chip
he broke his David
out of stone

but I mumble with a brush
polluted a tomb
with thievery and doubt
if I return to you
I will do so stollen
rolled up in bay and --
my Florence! I couldn't see you
I was lost

I could not be him
he unleashed, I hold
and now you wear his hands
like a beloved scar
and then you haunt my sleep
with your eyes of old

I am sessile, sterile - I doubt.
I cannot speak.
stone carved inadequate, for
I do not know hands
the venules and the etchings.
I could not learn

fiddling like a cricket
in the arms of leaf
I see him leap through ages
to come and observe
I am an artefact flaw
and him the sound perfectionist
he inspects fingers
as they stumble in paint
ever-looming, giant, bearded
with a broken nose

you, Florence! He steals
movement, instill it, gifts it
you wear it, then you watch me
with museum eyes
Good love,
I am no David
do not ask that of me, I may weep
stone in my hand
I sling stutter over my shoulder
and watch the forever tyrant grow

there is blood on your breaths
and the shrouded world is watching
as we hold these empty sheaths
wind—cold and blue
holds us
a siren from the sea.
noise— noise
of humans talking and
laughing and rotting
—drowns us
but this shore is lonely

and our castle melts to sand
over our heads—
suffocation—
something too full sighs
in our vacant selves;
and in these purple waters,
surface
we’ve never known

but there’s blood on your song
and flies crowd about
my hands—
silence sleeps in my lap
your fingers grazing my heart
something loud blooms
between us and
—bees buzz
your feet clothed in earth
and we’re alright.

—we’re alright
I ask you how we are so—
what did we do for
this quiet.
—you shiver.
and the shrouded world watches—

bed:
blood
in us
of mud

shed
the rust
muscle
of dust

red:
tongue
wrung
strung

said:
run
the run
begun
(we did)

-

head
of toil
of ours
in soil

bread
of skin
soiled
in sin

led:
we went
say, patent
we went

wed?
ha, sweet
pleased
bland wheat

bed:
pillow
above us
below

bed:
black hand
fragile
and