You won’t understand.

Tell me this—

would you be a part of it?

my life:

an archaeological site of silences,

brush away those cobwebs in corners

and you’ll find absences,

and fissures

which hold no answers.

 

 

If you’re looking for a clue, there’s none to be understood.

 

 

You ask,

how maps can take me away across seas

and give me wings;

you

don’t understand,

that words do travel—fill the crevasses of my mind and invent kingdoms.

you

don’t understand,

and you never will: that our inventions are as different

as sepia-toned nostalgia and brightly coloured daydreams.

 

You

cannot understand,

I only want to be free of all of you,

because you

refuse to understand,

that dull shades of grief sometimes do appear

and none of it is supposed to cohere.

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আমার Kolকাta

Shrouded,

bumping off buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead

Slouching,

cowering behind shadows,

growing

like the stench of battery acid

consuming the night sky

black—blacker—blackest.

Kolkata, tall and uneven,

filthy underneath its colours

spicy and sweet,

savoury—

under a swarm of bloodsuckers and flies.

My city collapses on itself:

looser than rubber band stretched for three hundred years,

tight as a virgin arsehole

Now emerging from beneath,

spilling through the cracks and grills,

like liquid tar, burning cold

devouring,

by and by,

slowly slipping into my veins

s l o w l y

drowning me alive, one with the dead.

Fear not,

I whisper to myself every single morning

it is almost over.

_________

Edit: another cliché title which I like better.