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Anurag Mukherjee Feb 2019
Apocalyptic opportunity operating on obversely open,
oblong abortion-addiction, analogous of an upturned
episodic aporia apprehensive about obtuseness-
an opportunity inimitable in essence,
its assiduous attribution apparently evident
as economic edifices advertised as assistance-appeals.
Obviously, opportunities as enriching are essential
on account of existential affirmation,
otherwise all's apoplexy, ethanol ornament,
an altered evocation understated and escalated
obliviously; absent absinth; am armor arrayed
especially as assured; aerial oogenesis;
asymptomatic aphasia; acts of elegant appetizing.
Anurag Mukherjee Feb 2019
They are done. I am an anagram
a terrorized, tangible motor recoil,
follow their steps with no haste,
wallow in the lapse with no taste,
swallowing the rapt kiss but no wait,
something out of the rat-noises under the bed,
something out of the sarcophagus of dead film clips
(the film in their eyes),
sunken, pouted mouths which press the buttons
of thrill to mesmerize my motions
with cycling pain, tumbler's pain,
the pain of airless strobe lights,
engraving etchings of a bad bird
on the pillar of my neck.
Anurag Mukherjee Jan 2019
Something sweet left on the bedside table,
not within arm's reach, but I stretched anyways-
adipose weight alliterated against the sheet,
pectoral garage grunge sounds because the sand
is still puckered in my eyes which adjust
to the helix of light over time;

light, like lavender talc branched in.
My wrist flinched from the cold metal ****
of a compartment under the chestnut top
with papers spread expeditiously.
With my hand scampering for a sign
I splintered the squeak of a rickshaw.

A shy crow pretended to dodge a bullet outside the window;
right thumb still wasn't ready to draw the pattern
that unlocks my phone, but we do things
when we wake up and look beside ourselves
for warmth. We hadn't exchanged numbers,
but you'd left yours in a text, with an invitingly pale font.

Your lips left perfumed migraines where you kissed me,
but that's a good thing.
Anurag Mukherjee Jan 2019
I drink water like no other sunday-
the afternoon, grouped together
with light tease-breeze, an impending
dog-eared sundown, we ruck up in languor;
a kid carrying carrots bicycles on the road
that's an overturned, sweaty, scabbed hand,
although they may not be carrying carrots,
and they may not be a kid; but there definitely were wheels
that moved slowly with limited grace
(no way to make sure), and the washed clothes
left hanging are almost dried.
Anurag Mukherjee Jan 2019
When I headbang- and we do headbang
since as far back as we remember-
my hair, shaking like clumps of phantom pom-poms,
has its fun, evading a spotty survivor's guilt,
making good use of training and conditioning
under diverse climates. But it still chafes
against a comb, which is understandable.
I don't relish being grabbed by my throat
although I have been, but very safely,
in the good humor of a modest Tropicana-
Anurag Mukherjee Jan 2019
Meet the boy standing on the stump
of a tree, (species undisclosed) lopped because
of reasons unknown, on the sidewalk,
towering over his shadow unrolled tenuously
like a policy behind him on the road littered
with mouldy cups, hired ants, ****** breathing-
you cannot find him on a GPS.
That would be delusional.
You can't meet him either. He's a service,
a tangy satisfaction that doesn't want dinner
until he goes back to his house,
plonks his backpack, bats his way to consequence-
rounds up his Kinley heart,
that limpid stare-ahead.
Anurag Mukherjee Jan 2019
When someone calls me a frantic baby
I call myself spontaneous because
my lunch discourse is nonpareil, entering
the vacation of filling motive-
to them I say yes, yes on the call
we whisk the happydent-chewing sky,
pull the sweet water off the stem
with stock pumped breathy initiative;
if talking is ever cumbersome
we loop around the cream-fills
with the authority of 25-watt-dust lamp,
all the good stuff pulverized skeptically.
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