Settle now,
you tyrant prince
So pretty your tantrums—

There is a chaos
oozing out of this weaved stronghold
so quiet,
no kings, no servants hear.
Guards joke on of drinks and thunder
Mothers, with children,
wander, and so do moons and ghostly clouds
But you will not sleep,
what is wrong?
(what did you do?)

What old folks’ lore
awaits our fall
to fill the blank of its words—
What dogs sniffing around,
a thousand suns after,
for the long-smothered stench of our bones?

Then, so lovely a waking—

Dare not you stir, wretched bloom! Dare not
you whimper or flinch
Still now!
As rats we stand
to the great shadow
of our unleashed beast

Surely, some doubts lurk inside its head—
Surely, we are the dead; surely, statues…
Never known a taste of life,
surely, tasteless we!

and pleas and pleas fill up our eyes
As, slowly, the beast moves

Hush now!
do not you flutter, do not sing.
Still, still—
as, oh, the shadow
smaller goes.
Oh, far, and now further

so close we were to an eternal night

(and the flock of birds
to sun sails
as winter crawls behind)

Had you giggled a smallest of tides—
oh, but don't you stir now!
Give me your hands,
your soft-skinned ankles
and neck young—

It is alright.

You’ll grow up to paint
wonders on these ropes and
They will not ***** as much later
No, not snakes! Ropes they are. See! Harmless—
Hush now!
Not a whine, precious child,
not an accidental sob

(the winter comes, I know,
but dare not you shiver.)
Still behind a betraying gust
may hide the unleashed beast, so
be done with this excited foolery.
Hush! Don’t you weep—
No, the beast still lurks; it does,
it does, it does, and dare not you move!

You’ll bring upon us a plummet undying

Stop now! Stop with your flutter, your
trembling gaze,
stop, stop, please—

Grief is good, O naked shivering—
Grief, the last full blossom
In the rich, rich ***** of spring
Laden with hues, their gentle smother;
Reap it they and morph a shrine:
Grief, the violent girl of a silenced mother.
Grief, the first decay of decay old
As the sky beats down and down,
Burning all green to gold.
Grief, the cunning god
That quietens, and teaches the art of scream.
Grief then, the ripe fruit’s bitter-sweet cold.
The first fall that a thousand follow,
Crystal chambers of the first frail flake.
Then, hues that all white swallow.

On, on swirls the necklace.
A countless tyrant beads
Still, countless laced with grace
True, shrines tumble, and daughters weep,
Falls then burn, and summers melt
Thirst and ash into fruit do seep.
This despairing tickle in so deep—
But suns to snow and sweet still on subside
Own thus the jewel, and, hush, be off to sleep.
Oh, in here a faceless sky long stubborn stood;
Years blank, till snow and sun lit up from soot

O naked shivering, grief is good.

I wonder what lonely sees
 women with pretty eyes
— a library in the night
a classroom with broken chairs

white-boards
         and bullet-holes
echoes in the halls,
giggles on the swings—
a group of laughing men

wine glasses with their clinks
an unread book—
     a wet matchstick box

I wonder what lonely sees—
when he wanders around the towns
  — whether
endless moors beneath    glass-lid skies
  empty roads,
and emptier cadavers —

or
— just the world

as it is—

12:30 am

I like poetry
I like the tenderness of it
and how it is like a leaf
I may slip into my pocket
and carry along
into stifling examination halls

I like its thoughts
the gaps and turns
it does not ask for cleverness
from me
as I do
it is not a mother
and not a child

a poem, a poem only
silly and free
like a fly
that does not care for freedom
or like a little gust
in a thousand crowd:

the hair furls
I turn to watch it go
but it is gone
before i do

Winds, whistles
now all is quiet
paint-brush, sea
your lips moving
speaking nothing
your hands
expressive as ever
my words
causing a *****
by your feet
cluttering, cracking
as you step away

there is no noise
no chirps of the city
no tales of sleep
I run but the running
leads to nothing
I run not to run
or to reach;
perhaps to move
or to cause to move

But the movement
makes no change
the heart is far
the hands grasp each other
like mourning women
the sun is empty
the sky is full of it
houses reek of its reticence
and the people
are out of talks

summer is cold
white, dim, dusty and damp
the pages crinkle like cloth
and when I look up
you are headless

just shoulders, neck, arms
torso, legs
a presence, but
no voice
I speak, I cannot hear
You crumble
I crouch to collect
but I can grasp
at the quiet only

Fear is a fire that eats the soul
Muffles the brain in a cold body’s triumph
Toss the world from hand to hand
Say, praise the petty warrior heart

Why do I do this? This mumbling
How many Discord VCs to lurk through?
Silence becomes; nobody hears the girl talk
Yet she is good with word, think one once did say

Bold with brushstrokes I dream to make
Yet never the warrior I’d one day paint
As mice we scuttle, say, as a mouse I do
She’s so shy, is said, and I seethe - I stutter

Words are we, and the absence as well
Bumbling thunder that tricks a tongue
Fear is a fire that eats the soul
With its carnal hands, it is so so sweet

I yield to mumble, the scuttle of old
This is not the pretty stumble of youth
World bloomed a bud, bright-eyed and blue
Called to me, it calls me still

Called to me, they all do still
Curse the Icarus eyes of song
We couldn’t look through, we couldn’t do

Gold did lure, it glittered too
Stroked the wings - I couldn’t do
                                        Lord, I couldn’t do

01:16 am

and this night
things are gentler

pillow - the stuffed owl and the clock,
swivel of silence
and stray dust; white-lit
hands as shadows
moulding themselves around limbs

and sensation:
a simple news
to the heart: a moth-wing
watching the light,
its ticks
timed with the pulses
of time -
it watches slowly
the light

—

and this night
we are gentler
body on body - like mingled wave,
ripples trail
but carefully so
as all fish sleep
or rest

—

and tonight
the weight
is just a weight

—

and tonight
there are no flutters
                          to drown to

I was happy once - when sadness loomed
Over gangly shoulders and looked
With its bare black eyes upon the world
Upon which I looked, I laughed pale-toothed
And gaunt, and startled its wings that clothed
My pretty green arms and made me lean
into the silly embrace

Sweet, ghastly vehicles churned
Before childish eyes, my childish eyes, and
All night long I watched the city chase its tail
Do you understand? There is a gloom
To trap the soul. The laughter but boiled
Oozed out like ants from a bottle of sweet -
Canvas-skinned, like torn milk it was, and
I chased it like a babe before a bee,
Then like a babe I feared its pretty pinpricks
There is a beast in fear that touches
The young

The gape of a cold cold crown that makes
Even the crescent ugly - of rains run stale
Through the ages of dance, of wheat fields’
Jolly feathers and the merrymaking
Of the nights when warm things creeped
Nearer and said things so gentle, they lead
Through paths of grey caress toward
The golden sun

There is a gloom to eat the sky
A joy that mumbles like dry thunder, that wobbles
Like ripe clouds through the winds, swept off
From the heights…

Sweet, the night lifted her head and nodded, and
Sweet, all good things drooped like prayers
before stone - sweet, the crescents,
Of indent and star, where holy terror
Had loved us slow, never felt so small as did
In the leaning - the yielding - us, beautiful:
Bone-eyed and bare, shuffled off from the heights
Of silver youth, as ****** birds, as ****** boys
Through the winds, and we melted
Sifted, out of ourselves and into the honeyed
Embrace of old

Dissolved in traffic
we forget ourselves
Metal and muscle of bone, of beast
Marrow of bloom
and whip-quick flapping of pigeon wings
When father coughs his crackling logs,
we know he arrives, we hide away our games

why don’t you study, why don’t you study, where have you been

So terrified of the world he,
with his sky-shaking speech.
father, father
what have you seen?

My limbs twitch and eyes flee
He knows not what to say, and we
never learned.
Taut skin aged to crease, and all that clover smoke

and dust from road,
It sits so stout in his placid gaze
I sink, I sink.
Say, father, father, will you not leave?

Dissolved in traffic—
Gyres of grey and their loosened rings
mimicked by the reeling of kites
So long he roamed
Within those slithering maps
almost became,
almost them.

Memorised the city on his very palms.

Father, father, I never could learn
the twist and twists and turns of its trails

The city got lost and I,
And I, oh— I

The whispers fade
of footsteps strange, and closed are hearts
in breathing reliefs
father, father,
What have you learned; father, father
we become ourselves
father,
The birds all settle, the metal melts, the
noises die, the traffic, oh, the traffic
your good old mistress, we forget of it—
father, father,
What have you learned

I mingle sometimes
and sometimes subside also
lost too, and wave too
sometimes; but here and there
there and then
washed up on shore, I am
glancing confusedly around, and I am
pecked and poked and
picked and tossed and turned roundround

and then, then
blue comes
and within it, glittery dust
and as I am slowly buried alright
and as I am alright almost
a tiding comes
from winds’ thick gossips
of a tiding bog
that will claim me again
and then falls, and pulls and it claims me, yes

and so the nights drip down on dawn
and I mingle, mingle almost, sometimes

Song, thaw me
Music, voluntarily gloom, I smoke
The turbid threads of lone
And let it stir the blood in me
Pills of ponder, the bottle
Of movement. Dance instilled
In my wooden neck. I am
Not astray in the moors
Of monotony. I am grass
Aged gold through days of speed
Blind sun stumbles, a ball
Shoved about in the faceless
Facets of the sky. The night
With its thousand vertices
Does not ***** me. What is this
This meagre crop, this
Dry highway of my skin. It gleams
Like a lake, and they mistake me
For a lover. Why do I tarry
So long before sleep?
Why does my heart
hurl itself about the room
I watch with a clutched chest
Fearing the fan would tear it down
And my mind with a thousand
Vertices makes constellations
Constellations too many
No room is left for the darkness
Noisy disquiet yawns in my bones
And they crack their necks
But God is dust on my shelves
And his angels are lit
In a paltry poignance
There is no lament or disection
Poetry is a slave to sorrow
And the sorrow is not mine.
This sorrow is borrowed, stollen
From a foothpath of grey
Ragged and tattered, used
Thrown. Stained with a love
That is not mine.

Song, thaw me on
The poem is so close
To completion... it is so close
To spreading its sensuous
Wings. It sounds
A perfect tint of green, the
Wind blows and almost,
Almost it

You are an idol of stone
You do not move, you stand at the doorway and watch
You do not talk
You stand at the doorway and watch
When you thunder downstairs to your mistress
Your wife sits blue-eyed on the bed
That is old and ugly, its wood full
Of red insects that bite, but you
Will not let her sell it
For you think it is just fine

When you drive away with your mistress
There is laughter in the house
There is a board-game
Of fickle fate and try
That your wife and your children toss dices upon
And there is so much chatter and so much sound
All red things crawl back
Into the deep deep dens of the bed
That your wife got from her own house
And that you will not let her sell
For you think it is just fine

When you laugh, it is like storm
Sounding through the fingers of the city
And you make so much noise, it startles the sky
It makes the fat dead TV wince at its past
It makes the gruff old drawers never want to move again
And you are always here
Such loving god:
We cut the stone from which you came
Into pieces, pieces, we carved so many of you
Now you are in every doorway
And you do not move

When you return from your mistress
You are happy
You put the new TV on, loud and the news
Of the city flood the house
You are a news yourself
You cough like a steel glass falling in the silence of the night
When everything is sleeping, you cough like its bouncing
That goes on and on, and like its spinning stop
You cough and you chew on the furniture wood
And you make so much noise

She cannot sleep

Well, after, you are still; grey-eyed and corpse
And the insects come; and they do not bite stone

the house smells like a melting wire

and
   outside

city
smoke, leaf–– kite

I lie by my window
an old god covered in age
once painted, now
white is my name

but it is suddenly so lovely

I watch my world grow
once clumsy babbling
it talks now endless

somewhere
     sun subsiding

and I am not rot

I am not rot

this is a whisper I will not let go

I run my stoney hand
on my stoney hand
my hand
the hand of an archeologist
uncovering time from time
and my hand
the trembling power of a painter
unsure fingers with a half-filled quill

I rewrite— strangely— verse after obsolete verse
red and blue and dawn on dust

glittery awakening-– heavy and sour
white sightless eyes on history focused

exit centuries
like lather through sink-– exit war and tomb-people
exit sunken empires where deities go to die
–– exit exit exit!

          open the window!

in a flood thick

awash this skin, porcelain and stone
awash tongue forgotten, awash pupil

an artefact arm
slowly mobile
a hand blooming to veil the light
from wet, blinking eyes

a rickshaw bumbles by
a van singing
even the quiet whistling of a
bicycle’s chain
it’s getting cold

my socks? where did— here they are

the house still smells like a melting wire
but Faizan said
that Saad said that
he is bringing pizza on his way home

and outside
grey-gold fades

slowly— strangely—
I am not rot

        a melting's quiet sniffs

I am not rot

02:30 am

something of tiring
soothes the soul
lemon eyes
lettuce body
and yield

when thoughts swivel,
as vision bugs, in moving mind
when the cradle of the heart
rocks
and bed
becomes an anchor
a tundra ecosystem
of surrender:

the breaths
faintly white like
gentle ash
ruffle around,
and something little of the jaw
lets go a little,
and the fingers
stop fighting

time disperses
and all writing stops.

Hello, poetry, how did it go?
I used to lean here not long ago
I used to think the night too slow
I'd stroll for hours, to and fro

Stumble in the morning, grimace
Wipe the sleep off of my face
Don my clothing, make no haste
Tie the gloom around my waist

I'd sling my bag, grab a pen
Set my scarf a bit around then
I'd stand, think, and wonder when
I'd come to see the window again

Everyday I came back and fell
Into the sullen, sweet old well
Light a candle, and then I'd tell
Stories of hell, of hell, of hell

Why not of the big white sea?
In which I feared I'd forever be
I was a little bit scared, you see
I'd paint so, so intricately

One could never have told
All colors else from brazen gold
Still, I could never be bold
I fumbled, prettily, I was never bold

Why, I wonder, now that I'm blind
There is no cold sorrow of any kind
Is there now no hue left to find?
Why is there a silence in my mind?

The storm limps away into the night
I follow along--

out of an enigmatic temptation, I dare not fathom
I once visited the ocean they said was in love with the shore
they told me to walk bare foot on that ****** sand,
and breathe in the rosy winds
said it would help calm my ravenous heart
Ocean, they said would hear all my unsung screams

said if I gave myself to the dust, it would crawl up on me
and cover the naked of my shivering being like a wool blanket

I sat with my legs in the shallow water
and watched the giggling waves winding over each other
the sturdy tides curtly calming them down
only to be disturbed again by sudden callous gusts
Ocean, they said, would wake the child in me

running through the alleys, I call after the raging winds
but the night dozes soundly to sleep.

I walked bare foot but the seashells poked at my skin
as if desperately reaching for the flesh, or I think they did
closed my eyes; and oh the devils that I saw,
dancing their charm out; seduced, I forgot the flowery air,
but I know I inhaled it for I still feel the rose-thorns ***** my throat

The horizon smiled at me as I drew away my lids
I watched the lacy white waves ebb away
hoping they would take along what of me was left to carry

I follow you around, sailing through my vivid seas,
noting down the shrinking moons.
hoping to reach you but then I reach a village,
full of ancient wells and old kids
I wander through fields reeking with grass,
and through moors starving for it
Hoping to reach you but then I reach a city
full of luxurious graves and flooded streets
and so busy do I get tasting new drinks
and walking through puzzling, shining halls
that I forget about you or the old blue void calling me home

But that lasts for mere centuries--
Until one day some sudden chirp brings something back
a morning breeze so saltier than before
and when I see the familiar fields far away
the trees thinking, the bushes sleeping
somewhere behind the unmoving crowd,
a thin colourless line ,where the sky kisses the earth
calls out to me, singing its alluring ballads, someone familiar,
Almost a friend.

So I set off and run along the paths that lead me to you
drinks clink but I run off, villagers offer me roofs but I sail away
days blinking by, dozing off cautiously at nights,
feasting upon wild roots I run off for you, an almost friend.

And you’re there, right there, here I come, one jump away
your hand mere inches away from mine
your sound right next to my ears, whispering
forever teasing, sneaking away silently as I come closer
Like a hungry bull, I try reaching for the apple hanging by my horns

This blazed sky is no home.

When I lie on the sand
I only feel the little pearls climbing my body like ants,
They reach the top of me, pin in their nails and tie up their ropes
I wriggle and I scream then I tire and still
This is not falling asleep at all.
I feel like being dragged away into the snarling mouth of a cave
where the only noise is that of metal striking metal
knives spanking stones, daggers sighing in relief
as they slice smoothly through a skin so mine
Slow, shy sounds of my blood dripping down,
embracing the rugged ground and never letting go
Slow groaning, cracking of bones as they let go.
vessels—Oh so lovely—vessels only laughing

So I sit up.
I sit in the waves and watch them flutter about me
silently I sway along with the air, tides they greet and go
I wish they’d take me along wherever they went
maybe one day they’d leave me exhausted on an empty shore
and I’d look at the ever widening sky and be home

But they leave me behind on my very own land—
They ebb away from the shore they’re in love with
and she never follows.

Father you are not far from crime
I used to think you a better God
When I heard your footsteps pound
And shake the house still and child
But you are just as small as I
And timid you turn from door to door
And yell out wild in the void
You do not seem to see that we
Have so long packed up and gone
And left the door unlocked should you
One day see and follow through

But you are frown. You snore for long
And wake up to yell. You yell and
I think, is this all you will ever be
But no, my father is soft at dawn
When sun is blue and we are torn
Between memory and yearn
Nay, I say, with my shake of head
Father's his father's scared child
Give him a prayer, my God is kind
But then a gust of wind will pass
And fling at him his muttered curse
And we watch again the tempest rise
Above as flames about the sun
Then violin, whittle, wind and whale
Then generous lot with his love
He caresses so beautiful.

Porcelain becomes fear, but
There is no room for flight.
Father, you are not far from crime

The morning is mine
when people are asleep
Sun and I talk
Birds say their greetings
when passing by
I wash oils off my face
scrub the night off my teeth
I open the windows
—the war rages on

I boil milk and blend in
some coffee
she runs down my throat
burning and waking all
of my snoring folks
Sloshing, she plays in
my arid stomach
—the war rages on

I put on some music
Arabic flutes and gentle drums
and open my books
I read a passage,
then read again
—the war rages on

I reread the passage
What are they saying, I
write it down,
I rewrite, then cut
—the war rages on

—the war rages on
I could scream or tear
apart this book, break this
cup where an abyss now sleeps
jump off, I could.
oh, dear vultures, I could run
away, away, away, and
wither on the way. Oh wither!
but I hide under sheets
and wait for sleep to come

Mercifully, she does.
she always does and I
will wake up and gulp some coffee
and reopen the book
reread the passage, reread
rewrite, rewrite, cut
—and the war will rage on.

this earthly gaze
still so stirs
even now the face
something kills

mountain eyes
still do peep
upon all that dies
and then do leap

on our frail fortress
in the green
you do not rest
your golden keen

say some fable
invite
if we then are able
do bite

unclothe sheep
unearth meat
your secret keep
we will in sweet

bliss of moonlit bit
turn then all away
and lure with just the wit
of a silver bay

laugh faceless
sound of sea
on grey impress
the sound of sea

sight of shadow
gallows' scarf
in gusts then flow
call on the calf

row a waving
seeing and still
move the boat-wing
down the hill

down down
we do come
smile now the ivory crown
do we you become?

It was so quiet there
I could’ve cried out sturdy
And all the sounds would’ve returned to me.
I did not though
The windpipe clung to my lungs
Wrapped round and round till they gasped
Just a huh
Too pathetic to be pitied.

That giant tree, I will remember always
Out and out it bloomed
And stayed with me all along
However far I hazily stumbled
I looked so mad
I felt so—

My brain lurked where it desired,
Lingered wherever; and I
Followed, I followed:
Always a step behind
I said, where are you going?
Just…
And into the towering corns we vanished
So dark, so dark

I said, it’s dangerous here,
Anyone could come from anywhere
And quieten us anyway— anyway—
Just a moment…
And we sat, listening to the insects together
The crops so high up and devouring
It wasn’t much different from crowds
Yet silence— so ringing and shrill
Scream, I offered
Scream?

And we sat there for a minute or two
Listening in to the eternity forever.

these days, summer sticks sticky
on plastic and skin,
and moss above lips grows fast and fat,
sneaks through muscle to chin, and
leaves its footprints on the nose

these days, ticklish goo melts
out of the bodies of clay and
drips dreadful down
licks the spine with a slimy tongue,  
and opens its dark wide mouths
near hills and pits, it
sputters out snails of staining trails

these days, metal wings stir up
an air soggy with warmth
and mix up a hundred drain flies
that settle unflinching on necks and arms
and bite little
little and sour

these days, sweetest touch is salt,
and faces unpleasantly gleam
beneath liquid white lights
that splash all boiling on flat-faced tiles

these days, March winds march
their banners of sun-softened fruit
and sallow nights
that tumble in tumid vomits of black
and smoke and groaning fans
round
     and round
and round
in an orchestra of mosquitoes
right inside the ear

no one loves a wild rose
love they may
the boldness of its stench
or sweet blood
that stirs within
at every touch of its teeth

but a rose is not a petal
or its blush
not the sturdy stalk
dressed in laces
a rose, a rose, a rose it is
and wholly it lives
wholly sings
to winds as nonchalant they go
to beads unblemished
an lips of gold

but its words
no gentleness adorns—
no yielding music
in blossoming gowns
its song, as ocean
smashing against rocks
cold
as all around them
glows a sky
angry and bleak

could I say,
no one loves a wild rose
—no one dare
and an infant may smile
to a sunny girl
blush a maiden, a mother old

but a rose wild,
wild stays;
and such simple its lure
I am left a forest
bowing.
and I like you, I
like you, I like you
whole, whole—

So, that third floor of the building
was forbidden,

and up we climbed three
quiet, mischievous rats,
As thudded and thudded
our frantic chests

Where echoes, as waves,
of every whisper plunged
into the unlit well—
Scurried away all the lizards
at the unbidden thunder
of our steps

There sat
the pretty, pretty sun
awaiting—

Smirking past a dust-licked glass
'So you made it'
yes, yes, yes
and look at our trembling veins,
Gazes alert as spot-lit fawns’

Fear is beautiful

and only now do we know
only now, only—
A thousand hours of conch shells uncurled
Only just—
And we’re never going back

Then, the teacher comes
and roars out a fury
As we stammer and serve her
with our sorry words

but a smile dares slip
and down into the gaping sea
we go—

Then flutter and run we
away from her tides
Thread with thread intertwines
and we weave laughs
out of the lively looms
of our throats

run and run
as up chuckles the buoyant sun

No wrath shall hold and pull us now
Not again to those grim, dim
places shall we go

we have witnessed the luring miracle
of a little fall.

12:40 am

this is not sadness
I said wrong
this is pillow, pen
a patience of time
in between its clicks
like a chess move halted
for a carriage of thought
this is books
I never read

this is not the books I read
they sagged
to stale pale stories
but this is a passage one forgets
among a pile of others
like this
this is the stillness that breathes me
in and out
through the night

this is not sadness
this is… like tea

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?)

— but I did not dart into the field with a sword in my hand
I stood by the archers, choked poetry out a quill’s hollow chest

my sisters could slay heads in smooth, swift motions
their tiaras glimmered in pools of enemy’s blood,
but I only gagged at the sight of rotting flesh

led no soldiers on my armoured horse,
I sat by the rocks and stared at the ocean from dawn to dusk
picked up the flaccid of my limbs and willed them to endure
one more step, one more step, one more step,
one more—

shook and whimpered under weights of my velvet sheets
I drowned a hundred deaths beneath the layers of silent nights
— could’ve fought dragons, I chose shadows instead
and I did not win wars under the silhouette of my cape
I curled up at the sound of cannon *****,

shrieked louder than the wounded every time
an arrow kissed a heart
and I saved no bruised kingdoms with my flowing blood

sat by the roses and talked to the bees
cried out tears for a carcass of crow,
******* my bones with my feeble flesh
and I begged them to not break apart,
begged through every sigh of the air,
— every burning book,
— every hissing of the rain
every drop tiptoeing out a mouldy tap
I begged them to not break apart

walked though the forest with a lone wolf in my skull,
I sat by a newborn **** singing her back to sleep

and I cried out in pain when a knife ripped open my wrist
did not jump through dubious cliffs and roar with the winds
nor did I fight a hundred knights —
with a broken arm and a tired blade

I winced at the sounds of slashing swords
— shivered at the thought of a dagger’s stab
I dragged an obsolete chest through aisles of dusty, empty shelves
and I whirled around lilies and laughed with the frogs
all while melting away—

I Inhaled, exhaled all night— all day— with these rusted lungs

escaped a thousand chains that snarled in my bed,
I forced dry breads down my narrow throats
and saved a young jasmine from a greedy bird,

fell down thrones and I kissed a hundred grounds
through bleeding lips and muddy gowns,
molded my hesitant voices into tunes of ballads hand-stitched
I brewed tales upon tales for the lonely moon

I willed the vacant of this heart to breathe
every day,
every endless hour,
—every whisper of the despaired firefly
—every flutter of the wind
—every chuckle echoing in the sea
every tick of the yawning moon
and every tock

and don’t you dare—
don’t you dare
tell me about the battles they fought—

Sorry for sending you poems to read
I tend to forget that poems are meek
And the vagueness that pleases me
May not be pleasing for you

I forget, when I am charmed, I forget
To be quiet, to be quiet, to hold
The words firmly in my fist
Poetry is winged, birds I must keep

A gift for you, but you do not want
I know you want to, but cannot want
I dont get it, i forget it, I say read this
Then this and then this one too

Then you lie, impatient, hum along
And I cannot help but sag down a bit
Please do not begrudge my silence
I know no friend for words but her

Sorry, for sending you poems to read

Some admiration, please
something akin to a pill or
a sudden welcome warmth
I want to be put to sleep

a sleep of no tremors or waking
but not death, not quite
like satisfaction or tea, some instilling
of the sea in me
I thought I had quite grasped
a thread or two
but I am paper now
I have no word to write
no light to write in
I have no thought, and I cannot think

some affection would do
some small touch
some bowl to melt into
some flame as well

I want the night to stay
I want to sleep it away
Poetry is for nothing now
I write to satiate
to not weep, or to not fiddle
to remember, or to clear up
to love poetry
or to gather myself up

But the bed is warm and still a pond
and I wish to weep
I wish words were there to stay
I wish they could pat or touch
stoke my hair with an inhuman presence
some song would do
some voice/whisper/word
some sigh or solidity, some affirmation
I am so lonely
I will eat myself up

it is like a Koel’s cry
in the midnight tremors of time
it is sweetly sour
like orange juice or an Autumn’s flutter
shrill like a woman’s touch
or day’s gold
on some purple curtains

I don’t know…

in this blue dark,
with silhouettes of a forlorn city on glass
it sounds so real
I linger here listening
blinking with the clock

11:55 pm

now I will write a poem
I will write no thought
for they lie like silk
smooth and slick with solidity
and its thirst
(pretty pearls fall and fall and fall) perhaps
poetry is hand
the ink that writes it
something of the muscle
subtly moving
to move the words
then this one will be white
for in the light that it forms
is white and sharp

thoughtless banter…

with paper and secret—
we never become so still,
all rehearsals halted
to see the show:

perhaps this one will be fear
perhaps blanket blue
perhaps time
that slips into bed and sleeps
perhaps this will be snore
(I do not snore, I breathe only,
but this time does)

01:55 am

I think that someday
I would like to paint a ghost
like did Osamu
and I too would like to hide
it for no one to find

I think I’d like to paint
like I like to write:
quietly, clumsily
and without eyes

as a dove flies
and as it hits against the window
curious, and fearing
the picture it wears
I’d like to paint mirrors
and not beauty

for many can paint beauty
and beauty is never
without eyes
and though it may not lie
it may too not be true

I think Osamu
never wrote so fragile
as did when he wrote
where does this little path go?
where does this little path go?

—

You must love me
Oh, no, but you must, you must!
I am the muse they request to sing
in your old, beloved books
I am the twinkling butterfly
Over a thousand darkened blooms
Life twirls around on my palm
Deathlessness sleeps
Love me, love me
Mustn’t you now?
I have whirled and withered
Since the morn
Of this endless mourn
I have heard all smothered wails

Must you sway
In your precarious little trance,
must you?
You sure do know
A thing or two of heaven
But a thing or two merely
Must you love me, oh must!
I could tell you a dozen more

Death surrenders his cloak
For my dresses
Must you see—
I am a snowy woman kissing
Her mulberry love
I lurk on the vivid edges
Of an infant’s dream

You must hear me,
You must now, you must!
I have pushed my way through
The froth
That settles on the surface of the stirring sky
And I fight on,
Hum, oh I hum
One upon another lullaby
Luring the day to sleep
Must you love me!
Must you not?

Bruised and scarred
I have a hundred tales of beauty
Unheard
Must you ask,
Oh, must you ask only!
You sure do know some secrets
Of godhood, but
Must you ask me about yourself
Ask, ask, mustn’t you ask!

Love me!
O you peace-less, fluttering moths
The sun smirks an immortality away
Must you love me
For a single night, must you!
I wait, I wait
I count your molten bodies
That dreamed of kissing
The mighty sun
Counting, recounting

I wait, I wait
Then curl away in my lone vacancy
I wait
Then bloom again
Uncountable deaths I have died
Reborn only for you
Must you,
Oh, must you love me
Mustn’t you?

I shine a full goddess tonight
See me, ask and ask
I have so much of living
To spare
Oh must you love me
Love me—

So white
I thought it would tear through
Red revolution, gritting stones
Electric convulsions
And ivory tides

I felt children weep
Soft, long sleeves soggy as lattice
That, flayed to leaf, too long
On porcelain lay
Hisses and gasps—
Were sobs always so volcanic?
Like suns— erupting— quite not—
Wilting— to stars— blinking—
Gushing upon—
Each other; a strange confiding
Nakedness

And feathers
In bronze dressed— stuttering—
Stuttering, bubbling
Would that the flood would loosen

Rather melt—

Rather the moon than Jasper,
— It’s gory quiet
Rather pebble
Rather mud-licked bumbling babble

But melt— melt— Oh,
Never quite full for the night!

I feared it would burst
Crowds of red-cloaked seeds
Into a havoc of fruit and flesh

I feared I a dandelion
Would open— would sway away, away
From bits and bits— of me, but

It hit— hit, hit hit
The jagged black insides of mine
And I was real

I was real

Gasping— gasping, till it—

Laced with blue
Embedded with rue
I put on my dress
Shining with fluke
Inside I'm a mess
Out awaits a duke
Prepare I to flatter
Try I not to shatter

Trembling, I open the door
My heavy eyes on the floor
I hear the sound of his smile
Takes then he my bony hand
We walk slow, down the aisle
I think I feel them all stand
they gawk at our spotless shine
power, beauty, a match so fine

A perfect walk in a perfect hall
till body decides to give in and fall
In sudden, I hear all of the silence
name me, label me til I'm unnamed
gore me, control me, I've seen violence
I've been through, I've been trained
face of my duke's engraved with a frown
I still, I shrink, again I've let him down

though kindly he extends a hand
though slowly I take the stand
though still perfect we are together
I who saw glass break to shards
know many pieces we can't gather
know too many unflipped cards
too many of them yet to be turned
too many secrets yet to be learned

Adorned in red,
made with regret
he put on his dress
with misery so bright
to meet his mistress
on this cold, dead night
still he wished a try
to being her some joy

scared he knocked with grace
admired then her pretty face
saw her walk, then fall slightly
and helped her back with glory
tiresome it was to walk quietly
wished he to say he was sorry
but he too knew it was in vain
they had to suffer this ugly pain

Though he loved her deeply
and knew so did she briefly
there were other things to adore
power, pearls and dresses that sway
wars, swords and bodies to gore
still he hoped, oft sat down to pray
for return of life in their dry eyes
for a melody of their silenced cries

As I shatter to velvet ground again
their eyes follow me down like rain
though jewels don't match with love
it too has long run away perhaps
Spread its wings, out gone the dove
next to me, I see my duke collapse
how lovely, we are the perfect ashes
of two impatient, imperfect clashes

Not still, no, the rumble still plays
With thunder
And vehicles onwards go
There are so many clouds
And albeit too far their talks
I can almost imagine

No poems or music
Weaved upon lyres
Today, they too
Are polluted with normality
Such treacherous natures
Of this ever-stirring yonder
The surface speaks art,
And in depths aridity crawls

Cruel, so cruel their lightness
How I painted and sang
Of their rich tummies
How I danced in their blood

They chirp now a vacant gossip

I should’ve known
I should’ve lurked away
From their shows
Breathe now I in the rue and in a dim, dim fury
So cruel, so cruel the blue
So cruel and cold
In its silence
I hummed my throats parched
In mine, it vanishes, vanishes to grey

But tread on
The car stops and I slide out
Back in my rehearsed role
My stinging skin melts beneath the mask
The classroom roars

It is awfully quiet today

I just keep reading my own poems
At 3 am, over and over my words
Carnal is she, leaping at me, leaping
One, two three  bee  tree oh ******
Rhymes to thin down grief

No, grief is too fancy, I flatter myself
It is      maggot of the soul munching
Loudly scratching... my thoughts
Are anxious fingers, finger-tips torn
As war ridden boots, my feet make no
Sound in the world.. they startle but
Themselves, they leave no change

I am       wallpaper boiling through
Months of moisture, slowly stripping
Myself cement and repulsive and
Whitewashed... flat as the belly of a table
I lie like a dog with my limbs raised
To a friend

O God, love me. Overturn me.
I am tired of my stale riots,
Of my resistance, my revolutions
I am nothing to build upon
Nothing to build with, cats and
Cars sound through the walls
Like footprints into sea
I am deaf, redundant abundant,
self-centered misery and dull defeat

I pick my nails and sit
Boat in a stagnant sea
Jigging as if itchy, twisting
Twining tweaking tingling
Even time stops by to tusk

11:40 pm

sometimes the night comes early
fast like the lid of a pepper-jar
that spins itself geometric into place
sometimes though it is patient
like the swarm of a moss
or of a tide that turns time
to obese slime
sometimes there is so much to say
and do and wish for
sometimes very less
sometimes, the past nights
become other people
and future nights
become other people
and they sway like drain worms
round a puddle
on a tile
we are a crowd
all of us, a crowd -
body upon body like
an ugly cluster of skin
and shadow and grasp
we write things and we make them poems
then we write more
and we are all naked, but none truer
and sometimes the night
does not come at all
and I linger solidly
fidgeting with my words

Some people are so fiery a sky
No thunder rules their ground—
no ablazed suns

Some people run to other people;
they take less or more of their lands
—like all they have or
A little more still
to the furious seas where no god lurks.

Some still, are glass
or breaking bits of it
They love a sky, with lightening
ploughed.

Some nights are restless, oozing words
Some,
So vacant a fall—
Some then, somewhere within.

No thunder, no people, linger on this coast.
No gods; none built;
no suns bow—
Still, the noisy silence reels
Slow and sudden its dive,
as we, in talons, wilt
And still we, in skies, slither.

Light and little;
mistaken,
so easily, dead—

Sun in the night sky
erupts like laughter
sweet, old
but not as loud
tips around in splashes
that scotch the sky
and turn its blackness grey

I am haunted through hours
by the grotesque sounds
of its pain
people gape and smile
at the firework show

But I cannot still my shaking
I am too quiet to quench
the growing silence in me
I watch the show like all else
I fear I’ll never speak again

green green
like moss beneath Moon
and Moon is lit up, perhaps
half or more or less some little
as leafy litter tickles the street
and a gust
in riot
solitary opens
with a voice of Autumn and
bronze dust body
that in nails and toes
of alleys and houses
sits and sleeps
old lady knitting spiders
and rats
in antique blazers of black
as a car whispers by
swift like a hiss
or a city’s small sigh
that startles the silver-eyed lizards
and they scatter
as wheat breaths away
into into into the browny blue
and gold gold
like cold sun
that beats and licks all noise to fire

and rises, it rises fatly
with the lone gust and the white

12:36 am

Lord, this night does keep its quiet
not of our silver gyre does it tire

a thousand times I watch it rise
a thousand slips of its drips

up-down-up-down-up-down town
I watch its crowds black and brown

I watch the trees, the silver bees
Lord, this night is not night quite

It is strange and scary
To think so,
Still, I do
If I had not known music
I would’ve still known you
Still would’ve heard
The inarticulate whispers of your gown
Still then,
Gentle lashes silhouetted
Upon a sharp gaze

For the moon does not rise and set
Merely for its night
And the Mayna birds sing
But little to boast
For who dare boast but I
Who speaks and speaks, on, on of you

And they tire and groan
Who is this?
'Bet we could flicker a tad bit prettier
A sea’s sigh gentler than this leaf
That lives and lives, on, on in you'
Try then, I say, just try

Every dawn and dawn, they sing
Every dark and dusty blue
What do you think?
Curiosity tilts their heads
And I smile through my laughs
Still not, still not

And they wilt a little
Quietening down for a new show
Before a new sun’s birth
Before another shadowed sky

It is sweet and smooth
The envious mimicry
Of silver and song

Still not though, still not

No music I wish to wade in
Just the touch and touch of her breaths

11:25 am

some stillness here
that I fear to break
some gentle memory
of the body
some luciferase show
of a little plant
something still softer
and still small
like the tickle of an ant
before it is revealed
or the startle
of a single hair

say

I spent years trying to break
the horrible spell of past
to free myself
from its shame
but such nights
bring it back
like an abandoned baby
in their cautious arms
and when I take
it does not cry
or scare me with frenzy
it sleeps beside me
chubby-lipped and pillow
and the nights do to
beside me

I don’t know…
some stillness here
makes us one

12:15 am

now the paper
feels as gentle moss
beneath the feet

and now I have
no words to write
for the night

is the body ever quiet?
now the wrist moves
and I become a crowd again

and
now
one

and now
I am a sea
(I have never met a sea)

and now sad—
swear I do so
every night

and it is not even mourn
but just a hue
in the hues of the sea

1.
Hibiscus rue.
citrus.
cataclysm.
but so gentle rue.

2.
A cappuccino night
eavesdrops,
the lamp sleeps slouching
its jaw slack,
my clock's monotonous cadence
is loyal as always

4.
A quaver
from a cadaver
that is what muttering trucks
do to the night

It is like startled birds:
they never sit back just right

5.
Insomniac mosquitos
have a *******, I think

The night sky
moves like a swarm

I watch it like a friendless owl
but I am happy