Smashan

Smashan

I am told i cannot
see the outside of me
I receive the news
once
in a lull
twice
in ceasefire

accidents kill

he with the keffiyeh
hair splitting lanes
back spittle in sweat
ashes bowled on a crater

barrels of ore
dealing rust
dizzy with fumes
helmets weld
the damsels of a cyclone
into sediment

logs hiss
crack knuckles
cough to the dome

he asks why we came
when he cannot leave
what we are to do
to extinguish riddles
emigrate?



কা warps at
the gates of Siddheshwari
sidestepping KN95s
redeeming in carts
of fresh produce

he strokes his head
to sift fine particles that cut
and torches:

a barber with an electric razor
a communist armoury
a moshari
a mattress
a kolbalish
a walking cane
an umbrella
a bowl of fruit
a vase of agarbatti
and a sigh of ‘ora ashbe to?’

Soumitra

Soumitra

Ripped from his context
shawl stained caramel
fingers trimming the spine of a tome
he considers pamphlet
but not one she tells herself
she will commit to

Claps to namashkar
cupping a match to the teeth of
his Express 555s
casting muleta
to snare

Difficult to understand
he never asks for
the cadence of a warm body
but in song
nonetheless
expects it lent on credit

চাঁদ রাত

চাঁদ রাত

I
Before accounting
where we in a car?
professional adventurists drew straws
expired BBC pass, after hours
monsoon shackling tin
whistles from the railroad, from wardens
eluding munchies
tramping soles into
the kitchen market
এই দামে ভর্তা!

II
twine wings
palm cupped
mangled intestines
cough out the cavity
serrated edge
jag saw-like cross
craned skin of the neck
twitching in the concave
of its blood
murderers’ row
collapsing under
feed
alopecic
feathers needy
cawing wet
and red
a defeated people
laid to pasture
cycling
ভাড়া দেন
kamrangirchar
dining to
rock vermicelli
fresh chini
the milk that failed the harvest


Art: Walter De Maria Untitled (For La Monte) 1963

২৭ Cashier

২৭ Cashier

চুল কেটে ফেলসেন?

Outta get-outta-jail-cards

Table of waffles, fluffy dolops of boshonto (blueberry), whipped cream liaise mapple syrup. Both xerox me to finish it. Both lock my arm in public, read my miranda beforehand. Only one asks for it.

Counter of muffin-tops, latte, americano, সর, creep, s’mores, hata-kata-romeo, black lung, sing-sing on volition, cemetery spent on methamphetamine, it’s-so-good-be-bad butter beer catering prom

জি

Low fade, thwarted spikes, sole-less nikes, a-dennis-ekersley-type w/o the limblessat-bat, apron tying howitzer to homecoming

Seats of kopal-chata, sophomores, stone-wash, hugs as barrels, barishailla-nibbas, 12 haat, halal x-men, S-Z-Twist-Crepes, half-life-malaise, zara blue-ticked, plaantik-up-kicks, tangled ear-phones, disrupters, articles of fleece, beefeaters, woods uncorking fall collection, TikTok, spooks in dusters, ripped-knees;
miscegenation, synergy court-side to the dyeing process: @handsome stumble and fall to the piazza from a 7-footer porch: blackout

Smoking Zone of খুনি খুনি খুন করেছে

Ahadith:
রাধা বলেন, কৃষ্ণ?
সব এ তার,
ভগবান্ এর
কপালে পা রেখেছে,
কি হয়েছে?
Shab e Mi’raj
Burāq
Mount
Wail
Al-Aqsa
Maidan
মদ খেতে আসবেন
আদর করতে?
ঝিনাইদহ, মধু না কেয়ামত?

Meh

আপনার…মনে আছে?


Art: Billie Jean King

The Grassy Knolls of Somerset County

The Grassy Knolls of Somerset County

Ami Tarail theke jhulchi,
Krist’s league of murmurs cling
a catholic confessional
to the tuttuk porda:

The tarmac is not laid at Hamburg;

Ziad does not stand, coffined,
in the telephone booth chanting to Aysel:
Bhalobashi ; Bhalobashi; and

For the final time,
bcoz he is in Newark:
I love you.

There is no Mr. Jarrah announcing:
“Ladies and gentlemen:
Here the captain.
Please, sit down.
Keep remaining…seating.
We have a
bomb on board.
So…sit.”

There is no Ms. Grandcolas, who—
i am extremely sorry, my love—
is pregnant,
reassuring her husband:
“Jack, pick up, sweetie. can you hear me?
Okay. I just want to tell you,
there’s been a little problem with the plane.
I’m fine…
I am fine…
I’m totally fine.
I just want(ed) to tell you…
how much I love you.”

There is no Mr. Beamer,
pre-jump,
to recite:

first, the lord’s prayer,
second, Take Me Out to the Ball Game
And, finally, the 23rd psalm redux:
“…though I walk through
the valley of
the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil…”

There is no lantern of courage in their eyes,
as they disobey signals:
outer, home, and advance starter to storm
Bahadur Shah’s chambers

The sepoys do not khamosh
in stumbled celebration:
‘it’s a fake; a fake
The bomb’s a fake
The bomb is a fucking fake.’

The khalifa does not
barrel;
rinse;
nor swerve.

There is no takbir.
No hard-right nosedive.
The transponder does not turn off.
We do not
blip off of the radar.

But
I do have you.
And out of the three,
only one of you attempts,
and,
unimportantly,
fails,
repeatedly,

To escort me through
montronoloy-mistz
even at khob hour
ensuring this compartment
is not extinct of racket

To choke my stare
Into simulating
something between
A smile and a strange thing

To administer
cortizone shot
at achilles heal.

Grocery

Grocery

Mountain Dew, 1 can

• Murgi (Farm; Skin-on), 1kg

• Kolija (of Beast), 300g

• Ata (Lal) 1kg

• Chal (Nazirshail), 3kg whtever the price

• Peyaj (Bideshi) 2kg if tk300, 3kg if tk250, 5kg if tk150

• Lal Saag, 2 bushels

• Beetroot, 250g

• Nongshim Kimchi Ramen, 1 pack

• Life Oyster Sauce, 1 bottle

• MSG, 1 pack

• Northend Ground Coffee (Espresso Roast), 850g

• Mediaworld Ltd, The Daily Star, 1 second edition issue

• Surf Excel, 1 kg

• Vim Liquid, 1 poly-pack

• Fay or Bashundhara Toilet Paper, 3 rolls

• Lotte Spearmint Chewing Gum, 3 sticks

• Whisper Ultra, Joya, Senora, or Freedom Sanitary Pads, 3 packs or non-কর, or whtever dipu moni vends or u knw wht, fuck it

• You & Me Condoms, 2 packs

• Piramal Healthcare i-morning-after-pill, 1

Labour

Labour

Bolton Northeast,
Dudley,
Halifax,
The Valley
for whom
the BBC tolls

you
are
not
entering
Free Derry

the Sterling
is
Graphic

finest china
of the red wall
bull of ennui
breach of scab
mine
capitulating itself

the
top
rottweiler
pretending to know
what it does not

let loose
on the
shadow
purse-snatcher

Islington
there it goes…
inventing
where it is incumbent

because if
we had won
would we know
of other worlds?

12/12/19



Art: Keith Pattison

Abdus Sattar

Abdus Sattar

I can see the skull
the first time
I thought to look
it is skyward
should his eyes be open?

to look at the
unsoiled
jute
fibers
desiccated

stringing 8’s
through valleys
of distention

claiming
the sinews of
moth and cartilage
as their own

আর
কেউ বলার নেই?
আমরা বলবো

বি.জে.এম.সি র সামনে
আমরা বলবো

দাফনের ছন্দে
আমরা বলবো

খিদে হাতুড়ি নামলে
আমরা বলবো

বিষদাঁত খাবলে
আমরা বলবো

কালো জাহাজ থামলে
আমরা বলবো

রওশন আরা,
দুই বিবাহিত মেয়ে,
ইমরান,
হুমায়ূন
আমি ফিরব

এই ১৫ শতাংশের
এক খন্ড জমির উপর
আমি ফিরব

13/12/19


Art: Michael Kerstgens

Putul

Putul

special bodies
of armed men

some in gear
some em bedded
some identify
some press
some medal
some pulitzer

all cordon
all topkhana

she drownee siphoned off color juncture muhuri powder fleeing বোচা👃 cataract aashiq banaya in order an army captain coupla dozen hits an orphanage a car a red telephone so on cheeks flush carrion till bill clinton after he had not had sexual relations with that woman in aquamarine the expensive stuff from gauchia made men compensate wait with coasters of rc cola tufts of eternity flaunt viscountess white mum at why barristers ever wore horse whigs shame

2-0

2-0

Sending off the troops

Michael Thomas, referred to by the other 10 and Ray Houghton, on afterburners, who had his shins tied skipping-rope, as the only man on the pitch who would, did slot it and fit past spaghetti-legs-Grobbelaar that night where he and the rest of North London couldn’t graph the latitudes of their silhouettes—ruled unnatural positions, or, in the words of the superintendent, voluntary— from the Anfield advertizing hoardings

96

Collapsed, crushed, procedurally alcoholic advertizing hoardings, btw.
Not just on Friday evenings in May.
But on Wednesdays.
Especially on Wednesdays, postponed out of respect.

And…?

They never told you the time, asked, back, then, anyways.

Pens testified: it was as if your dew were mere yards from John Barnes not tossing and blowing towards the corner flag or,

as the few not drunk nor worse for drink spectators later opined,
not tossing and blowing towards 30 years of a day in infamy, cautioned by the ombudsman’s shears

When we would steadily and at a fast walk walk through exit gate C.

When we would walk through storms.

zǒu gǒu

zǒu gǒu

I. Lam Bun chats shit/gets banged

A DJ is mad as hell.
He is not going to take it anymore.

He is lampooning new-territory communards: cheap, dirty, obscene.
He, owing to his tremendous foresight, says he knows just how the red sun will die.

24 August, 1967
A shade past 9 am
He, sartorially certified dapper, metsubushi lapeling the dark side of the sun, and his cousin, Lam Kwang-hoi exit their Waterloo Road apartment.
They enter his Blue Volkswagen, the undercarriage of which destines no rust and

Are mummified with a petrol bomb and three unfalse red flags carried by three maintenance workers, three allegedly fake maintenance workers, who surkh hai, surkh hai aimed

To only gonna scare him: no Fourth Degrees, urning tendon and muscle thru entrepôt onto Queen Elizabeth DMC, autopsied clean bill of health, vicariously pronounced dead the following day and six days later, respectively.

To pay their graves, the authorities and his employers announce a joint HK$150,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the thugs resp

Stop the car.

But he is not going to take it anymore and
does not step out en route to
Commercial Radio Hong Kong,
where he is due to host ‘Can’t Stop Striking,’
a show satirizing stone-broke plastic-flower-factory workers
for they shoot horses, don’t theying to the bal–loons of The Gang of Four instead

II

Of the British Isles Mandatory diet of
cheap labor: high opium: cheap bodies
but with no Jane Fonda to pick em up
by their ball-rooming feet:
‘What else…do they want?’
Or as Shujon, discharged from custody ছদ্দবেশ Zakir Hossain Shaon, with roman-à-clef engraving pellets, cramping No más, on his casket, so eloquently cross-examined, to disabuse
the Master of Ceremonies:
Did they really চাষ Nil Khamars in Nilphamari?
Or did they চাষ civil wars?

Not west of 24 Pargana, they did not—
there,
they চাষed Renaissance-Men,
method-acted Segun Bagicha
in The Mirror with a cast, medical and thespian,
of paper-tigers and a few thousand clerks.

‘Land, Far far far away from
ferries towing
afim in wooden chests;
detonating poppy seeds
in Bihari chests;
lascars consorting
♑in treasury chests,
auctioning the Agency’s
bouquets to the Canton’s
soon-to-be-romanized highest bidder.

The catch.

In Nilphamari,
There is no PLA stationed at the pre-emptive coast.
There is no Premier to call off the pre-emptive coast .

There is no coast.


Photograph: Birdy Chu

The Week Without You, When You Had Gone Months Without Me

The Week Without You, When You Had Gone Months Without Me

I

You leave for PG, probably no later than 7.
Amma accosts you with empty tiffin carriers for breakfast.
You brush it off.
There are scans.
There are reports.
The reports:
You have to wait for.

I am on the other side of town,
As always.
But you are not on the other side of me.
I switch off/on the WiFi to crack each interval of the time and space between us,
So i do not ever have to be afraid of you being on the other side of me.

II

Tomar, jeta chao na,
sheta korte hobe na, babu.

Stuck on the Puzzle

With you

III

In the twentieth century,
Short, only because it has not come of age.

My bats for eyes lash and squirm, sojourn with you on labor courts, volley bb, maternity and paternity leaves; me, aged 4, getting lost at chiriyakhana: hours of maze, empty cages, tallow, iris, taxidermy, carcass jar, abortions strung from the lampposts of a whale.

Radiotherapy
Where you are told that
Kharap lagbe,
But fall to the floor
In relief—that it is a Cave—
A
Ondhokar
Fluid
Deshi
Concise
Ghar-tera
Family-friendly
Cave.

I blush.

IV

I flail,
Write for the next day
Not born
Yet has its tomb
To rally roman alphabets for the script-ed counter-offensive

The Field Marshal is, according to letter of the manual, mercurial:
Which is just posh for, ‘he has violent mood swings.’
Gangs are ordered to retreat into the countryside,
To draw-in, manoeuvre-out netizens:
Is furnace
Is not smoke

There is
Cargo:
Bushels, sacks, ports
Unloading under duress
Under-populists stymieing
Sign-Board, where Amma has cracked your windshield
Breaking Links—

We will see you…
…tomorrow night

V

At Monipuripara,
whose pulpit, I hope shall advise
Harun to come to terms with the Mercator Projection

He makes the bhapa pitha.
Not his wife.
Macher kata bhapa pitha.
But he

Who I know only to suppress,
himself
others.

I order: kandba na
Alibi: they had draped naphthalene gauntlets
As red carpet to uncommitted sins:
‘jeno char tala theke na shona jay.’

Yellow Cafe—
Telegraphed Baghdad
Thru tunnels of grill, mota jelapi, klanto jomayet, the jalmuri-ala who has eloped—
First as Farce:
Plea of cognizance to jury.

Second as
Salman Shah tendering for
Youth eternal
The Commodity
Of this unfinished century
Too seldom erected from ceiling fans
Scouting, with his family of two boys and woman
A forever 21 year old mantra:

Tomar o, jeta chao na,
sheta korte hobe na, babu.


Art: Concealed, Habiba Nowrose

Break Up

Break Up

The same every fucking time

Easier, on steroids
Less Ghobhir
Trunk shrinks
Not to husk
To thresher—
Langley dispatch,
No one-
Week notice
Gotanugotik,
Atoms, never diagram,
Betray no, origin—
Grain asunder from uterus
Lost, found in the
1st 48—
Nonetheless

i. I am. I am. I am.
ii. Pit of stomach reduced to bomb-shelter.
iii. Before we are sovereign, there will come the Blitz, হুশিয়ার, সাবধান
iv. Does it ever feel like the universe is not about to end?


Art: Self Portrait, 1963© The Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation

Shazneen Tasnim

Shazneen Tasnim

Janaza

I search for a IXth Grader and find circuits of
20 stabs; 18 agonizing years; unfathomable sorrow;
domestics: renovators or maidservants, helps, cooks or vultures;
white knives, black butts; iron batalis
men cock-roaching to beasts of conspiracy;
stays, appeals, rejections, re-appeals; acquittals;
mercy petitions:

death for death.

Doa Mahfil/Double Jeopardy

Mentions of rape and murder morph and hide & seek & unseek to
not rape during murder, rather, clear case of rape, then murder to
lowest common denominator:
murder, heinous,

Crime(s) Against Society(ies)

Qulkhwani

Nose Stud.

No Clasp
Left Ear Tuck
Voluminous Loose Waves
Hugging Bob
Excluding Fizz and Pop of the Right Lock in a Galley

Two Necklaces:
i. Rupa Heir street piece
ii. Beads—Black Dot at Fifth Hop

Off the record:
Red
Tunic?
Fatua
Walk-off?
Hearse?

I hesitate.

The patterns of ponds
not cobwebs
anti-sepctic,
blooming,
insurrectionary,
hallelujah

I can confirm

Amader o Ghum Ashe na.


Art: Carol, JoJo and Lisa hanging out on Mott Street, 1976; Prince Street Girls [1976-1979] by Susan Meiselas

The Black Hole of Mirpur

The Black Hole of Mirpur

প্রিয় ম: আলী আহসান মিলন,
সহকারী পরিচালক, বি.আর.টি.এ

I hope life has been tolerable to you.

More that you remember our days as bonded young boys usurping, in our several কোটি delusions, our parents and chars floated by the প্রাথমিক শিক্ষা অধিদপ্তর.

Our guardians and their best intentions, surviving the tropical-moha-bipods of the 1970 Indian Ocean Cyclone Seasonsomehowmade landfall.

Those of our brothers, not apprised of the cyclone, its subsidiaries, cholera and typhoid, settled in Shahbazpur.

The rest, the trillion cubic feet you know.

For now, I supplicate your attention, to your sense of fiduciary obligation.

Unfortunately, as with all things conferred great expectations,
I am awestruck upon procuring your audience:

Shinghashon,
loitering:
deflowers its court,
its jesters, its clowns, its navy, its mumtaz, its taj-mahal, its palace-intrigue its penal code, its pedagogies of how to fuck, and a whole host of other fruits and vegetables habituating its milieu.

১. আনুমানিক বয়স?
৬০
২. (খ) সবুজ ও লাল রং চিহ্নিত করিতে পারে?
পারে
২. (গ) রাতকানা?
না
৩. অঙ্গহানি?
না
৪. অতিরিক্ত মদ বা ড্রাগ আসক্তির লক্ষণ?
না

Total Amount (excluding VAT & SC) = tk 1,500

Exiting,
I am left with
what is
every raj:
substratums of air, extraction, and switchmen.

ড: আওলাদ


Art: © ICRC / André Jolliet

Delhi, will you teach me how to live without the sun

Delhi, will you teach me how to live without the sun

commentators tell me
groundkeepers tell them
that you have learnt
to live without the sun

they tell me
that arun jaitley is
an honorable man
who loved all cattle—equally

they tell me,
a lot hinges on the pitch,
which has not been watered for three days,
because you have learnt to live without the sun

they do not,
however,
tell me how to
name colosseums after living people

they also do not
tell me why Mr. Sarkar’s
corneas seem like they are about to
reload the musket-muzzles draining into the jamuna

they do not tell me
whether the adhinayoks’ cell
is small; quite clean;
or simply—all right

they do not tell us whether
we have had a good start
or, even stranger? weather
we have started at all