By Goirick Brahmachari
I have not won a single game in last one hour
but I am still playing to fight this disgust,
for reality is just an online football game
we play to lose everyday
and the winners shall always win
for we have to lose
and we shall love this continuous losing;
this utter desperation to fail,
over and over again,
until they change the meaning
of victory and loss.
early morning again.
As the world around dances to a new day
and talks of responsibilities,
I smoke, I break,
I try to hallucinate
where I eat planets
for breakfast and throw fire balls
at those who smile.
a white hill is what we all need to feed us with ice
for the summer is two hundred years long and sullen.
life is but waiting for an everlasting winter in vain.
stones age with every sun, break inside angry rivers,
archive tales that escape us through whispers
and hard to decipher,
for pain is a river
slit between the two sides of my tongue.
I shake my head upside down
and up and down and up and down to a class 12 song
to shake off my memories like mercury
in a thermometer.
But this violin solo offers some hope,
may be somewhere in a distant dream,
there is hope that a single note will show us the way,
yes, will show us the way to that dawn we waited for so long.
The heat rises like a desert storm
for the lack of water in my rhyme
dehydrates a traffic jam through my
morning high, expanding time, looping lives,
sound of water dripping
from a rusted tap in my washroom
at odd hours of the day, when I am already late for office,
and about to be fired for my red eyes, making room for a series
of masturbation with cheap poetry
breaking words, misspelling hygiene,
pouting death, for the heavy sun falls over
like the golden lava that can transform a breathing man
into a statue. I hold on to the iron rod inside my auto
to acquaint myself with reality that leaks
chemicals through my esophagus
now dying, falling over, eyes
flickering, before a graffiti on the metro construction
site announces that my days are numbered.
But I reach where I must,
before I forget where I was.
I wish I could just run into a cold night in the hills
and lock myself into a small cabin –
hungry, nauseous, dreaming in blood
and war; for weeks, as mist cover my face and
memories erode like clouds
that change colours,
for nights can bring new miseries
and I must escape tomorrow.
Sundays tastes like death.
Time slips with every drag.
Only a sore throat
can paint rivers on
the wall. Chemicals and smoke
oozing out, stinking
dead tissues, dead glands
dark clouds, rain, unexpected
storms that wash summer.
Days slip into months –
Years age with every blue sun.
left to quench hunger
and a deep cold sleep, never
to wake up again.
Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in New Delhi, India. He hails from Silchar, Assam. His first volume of poetry, For the Love of Pork, is forthcoming from Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark.
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