evening coffee.

I watch my world fall apart

then come together

when you

push my hair behind my ear.

Advertisements

31st December

Another year ends, look back—the past tense,

sitting under a quiet evening sky,

remembering fag ends of happy days and sad,

the colours of Holi now a little brown

with heartbreak, new friends, love lost, luck found,

a long scorching summer followed by thundering rain,

the hypnotic boom of dhak, our ten-armed visitant,

faraway places, the scent of the universe in open skies,

feeling the pulse of the mountains in its streams,

long walks and longer daydreams,

a few hurried birthdays, a cousin’s wedding,

lots of reading,

Christmas in a pagan house, homemade wine

and a fruitcake wanting zest.

my earphones blaring music at midnight and movies

all spun into one fabric,

smelling of old newsprint in a damp building

rolled into empty joints and set to fire,

a false high with people, some of who truly care.

 

When tonight spills in through my window, popping into distant sparks

I’ll say my goodbye and wish parts of you don’t come by, again.

 

23:59 December 31st.

IMG_20171231_211838_609.jpg

 

Odd

My lonely nights now merge into half remembered days—

—like burnt out flecks of untidy notebook papers that pop out of bonfires and flicker to death—

I sew these fragments together to make sense of the fabric of my existence:

an infinite loop of inhalation and exhalation.

I tell you my days smell like mothballs and burnt honeycombs,

You wonder about my evenings and “I’m afraid” I say, “I’ve forgotten what they are”

you want to take me to sunsets, you say

and paint my nails while your records play,

one moment I’m sure we kissed but the next—”It was a mistake”, you say.

you want to talk about us, you say, standing up to brush your long chocolate hair,

when I help put up lights you love me, you say.

So do I

I’m drawn with odd angles, you say

and that’s what makes me so interesting, you say.

But here I am waiting in your little balcony urban flat out by the midnight hour city limits,

willing the string of fairy lights to wound round my neck

because the bass is getting heavier and the air lighter—

—every minute dragging

—every second a little longer

Where are you? Only further and further away:

nothing, nothing but the silence of a hundred mingled expressions of joy.

but I’m floating away already, frozen to the tips of my hair toes finger hair toes finger nose hair toes finger nose ears hair toes fing—

—just another iceberg drifting in the Arctic.

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.