The Birth and the Death of…(AEIOU)

The Birth and the Death of…(AEIOU)

Warm angst affrays
The wretched Eden we
Kiss in; it
Knows how to rob
Us.

As
We err, we
Miss its birth:
Bloodroots born of
Dust.

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In Bloom

In Bloom

Vents pumpin’ C.F.C,
Levitate synths past dance-floor into stratosphere,

William’s Mix infiltrated by punting, flat rims,
Shootin’ sulfur.

Pilot Birangonas to Burigangas,
Give it a few months, or 528;
Commence the auteur fixations with framework;

Project en masse overflowing balconies,
Fruition:
Rape babies, Banksy’s ruminations at Gaza,
Weiwei’s hanging rubble children.

Laughing, in rivers of Ray bans;

German architecture always was the best.

Lawn stretched,
Hosting what was left over after the gangsters were done fucking the pundits:
Senile alleys cats begging to sit on Lincoln’s lap.

Drip, drip.
Suppository at the door,
Enema was the vaccine to all Lenin’s woes,

Curt shots of memory ricochet off lecture halls
Into hypodermic needles, born intravenous

Chunky Kamikaze strolls me into Gatling recitations of my how my mother died in bed while reaching for her revolver.
She laughs: “I am done with you all”
But,
Too late,
The suburbs have all cut off their ears.
—-
Photograph: Post Box Entertainments

Shorts #3: Media

Shorts #3: Media

Like Transcom was rushing into my gut and popping bubbles of sleep,
They succeed in

I want to.

I want to hear a hell yeah.
I want to hear a তুমি এতো ভালো লেখো কিভাবে?
তুমি এতো ভালো কিভাবে লেখো?
I want to hear a hell yeah,
I want to hear আমি কিভাবে জানবো?
আমি কিভাবে জানবো?
But no you will not sing because the streaks of my hair cry pretension
And I am not at the board of the BGMEA takin’ to the table like Mahfuz Anams’ editorials
Wearing white coats with full blown honors from my days at the bayous of chittagong
Putting Pakistani niggers into coffers draped by the rising sun.

Sing when Fakrul Alam’s dinosaurs creep along the edge of page and drop into the snickers of Kaiser’s moustache.

Sing, Like Yeah,
When you will feel it is your duty to point the inconsistencies in my language, to where I belong,

Sing and grin in satisfaction,
And make that smile dive into my panties, roll it around;
Moisturize,
Imprison it in all my vices like Muhammad Biral segueing into jail bars.

Who pays ?

Pepsi: that drink that’s too sweet to be coke, and too good to be good.
KFC: antibiotics in a walking bird
L’O’real: repeat after me: when they are not busy supplying the IDF with goody bags, they are busy admitting that their founder was a Nazi.
Novo Nordisk: tax dodgers
Nestle: Milky Bars, Sweetarts, Wonkas, bottle caps, oh Henry’s, Pepper Mint Crisp, Kit Kats (except in United States, where it belongs to Hershey’s) Aeroes, Allens, Mirage, Bellagios all on the backs of slave children in the Ivory Coast.

Gemcon-

B.A.L, street talk,

Look at me, look at me,
Eyes are free, what do you see?
Bulging wardrobes
Festive glee,
Selling blindfolds,

From revenue Plantations
To mathematical tones implying
Mathematical drones of spinach-strengthened models
Handing out social security checks.

Economists at hire,
Ngo-wallahs leaping like festoons to pen op-eds across my gastronomy:
Gnawing with jaws hawking donations.

Sing like when you’re days at the communist party were numbered,
Because at Paltan, they thought you were greeting salvos with roses,
Smack. Smack.
But you were busy plotting coups with embassy fire hoses,

Sing because when god said “prothom”
You whisked you’re self into Nazrul,
And thought “alo” like classrooms full of dunces.

So ask me again: তুমি এতো ভালো লেখো কিভাবে?

Nat Turner or People who hate people who use big words

Nat Turner or People who hate people who use big words

Your conceit chilled
Cross my cunt
And made Feathers into lead poking at my dinner.

Your words were so unrestricted in their meaning,
That after 20, going on 21, entire treks up your heartlands,
I came back with only poisonous mushrooms, which
When I boiled to take out the sting,
Cut me like people who hate people who use big words

To shadow their masculinity, which had run away from home,
Unfortunately,
In quivers of molestation
That roar backstage at high school plays of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,

Dwarfs, dressed like the sun when it was covered by the moon,
Who saw my tiny shaft
Dripping saliva,

A shaft, which, though in tears, saw the betrayed dwarfs
And promised to dress like a woman

Because only women give head To people who whisper:
“Stop pretending”

Chan Chal

Chan Chal

Back booth, Blunderbuss, to my balls:
Breathing nostrils congest 20 years of schooling in each breath

Limp past meadow
With houses breeding like rabies in scar,
Flora/fauna diversifying at the patio to draw out 18 year old punks into a gun fight.

–“This is why we have parental guidance”
–“But, father, the sluts do not evaporate after curfew”

Into town,
Welcomed by Rangmati symphonies

Spaghetti stare,
Jazz drum cues at knee caps,
Locks of hand turn to butter,

“The knobs of Havana radio don’t work no more, kid”
Counted, The Gallows outnumbered the rosaries.

(Cats and dogs, Kichuri nostalgia, Carom board dinners,)

Boom!

Some ’90s electro clasher busts in,
As I bid goodbye to my membranes, hanging on the Saloon slammers.

“Yes, Ma’am as you will”

————————————–

Photograph: Post Box Entertainments 

Do you think I would dress like this if I cared?

Do you think I would dress like this if I cared?

Do you think i would dress like this if i cared?

Suffer me into the sun,
Bite dog days into my clothes,
Wreck Tijuana bibles, coagulate them as shame,
Punch them into knuckles,
Bench press each against my mattress.

Ruffle me all over with your oleaginous tributaries
Do my pantyhose look like they are up for lectures?
For your slangs meandering up vine pipes;

Parasite behind bushes, blooming endogenous?
Noctivagant, amputated passenger pigeon,
Noose on 365.
Deep Throat me.

Back in the kitchen.
Look into my trousers.
What do you see?:
Tire shedding rubber, wrestling debris

Punctuating my mammaries
Serenades for my blouse.

Double time, now

Look down. Look down. Look down. Look down.

Shorts #2: Classroom

Shorts #2: Classroom

Head hung, back of the room: reindeer fighting frost;

Hi hated, crash, dumb. Deaf, stupid.

Expatriate to back benches, churning out engineers digging into their noses.
Magnus Opus travels world tours

Be-bop
Top hat,
Skirt down, thighs slap:
Grunt gifts stair cases,
Slabs of meat.
Eyes closed, moot kisses

Let me click your bones,
Carnival heels in bulimic cases,
Powder puff,
Mascara hanging in faint traces,

Black soot, Mall whiz,
Like Monica’s dress in 95
Forever 21 and stained jizz

Pet peeves,
Home alone
Hydraulic rims
Do the drawers,
Varsity jackets,
Drink up, fall in, fuck hard,

Wait.

Spit trust fund.

Never was I..
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter”
“I heard them all right, but your head was always so far up your ass, I bet you could never tell it from your elbow.”

Stop with that gangsta shit
Fucking-A if you think getting loaded is the end of times, but don’t preach me on it.

The burn unit was ever present in my nightmares.

It’s as if I would imagine myself running, grasping at molotovs just to get back at them.
I wish they could suckle on my nipples just to see how I really taste.

Invitation Only.

Death Squads For My Heart

Death Squads For My Heart

Rods fingering,
Nighttime courage,
Juiced ripe,
Dry as a kite, barren against the wind.

Fluid posterity,
Musical chairs except there’s no odd one out: the boxes keep rotating,
Mike to a different MC.

Mockery,
Body sampled in beats skipping distortion in her account, so the super intendant, when he does take the stage,
It erupts with applause roaring 40 degree blasts of sweat, and 20

Journalists tickling his nose with their hottest fingers slurring cleavage.

Twist knife, clunk, glitch.
“But I wouldn’t have killed her if she didn’t fight back”

Encore

“And I wouldn’t have killed her if she didn’t fight back”

Squeeze pulp,
Stir squalls in squares saluting foundations saluting legislatures saluting British penal codes
saluting the old world saluting squares saluting foundations.

“Wake up, wake up”

“That’s it, my fifteen minutes are up”


Photograph: Raisul Nayon

Shorts #1: The Kids

Shorts #1: The Kids
  • Script budding for eyes kissed with public school pollen; secretary’s nails scratch them off like shooting squads in the Congo.
  • Unconsciousness: the level of self awareness required to live your life in a wheelchair, scrawled with butler stickers and backyard chlorine dumps.
  • Panels are unforgiving if you are not a demagogue kicking dynamite about as school children propelling dynasties.
  • Chain smoking pipe orders no audits for the gravitas of some Istanbul café tramping like blow sniffin’ wild cats from the towers looking down at the castrated bull through rings of fire.
  • Trans: because it goes over your head and into a reptilian windpipe.
  • Don’t want to be a bum? Hum

Pestilence and its Victims

   Sétif-

Auschwitz is now empty,                                            

A mob to the colon’s beat,

Natives with their tongues cut out,
Slog to the marketplace.

Toast to victories-
Not theirs, at least for now.
But veins shoot
Negating themselves of the superior monkey

A human chain
Accosted by muzzles,
The crowd glows–

Pierced skin,
Melted marrow,
Blood to Oil,

A child with broken cheeks,
Waiting,
For Summer to sigh.

Knitted, repressed
Dancing around the fire at night,
Parades line for servings of white phosphorous in open sight.

      Paris-

Cavernous walls
Ring of howls:
“Liberty, Égalité, Fraternity”

The streets,
Ejected of the plague,
Awash with the fervor
Which talks of Man incessantly,
While massacring him everywhere he is met. 

Cafes burn bright,
Dinner table chatter:
“Human shields, terrorists, civilization.”

Radio plays: Young men shipped off as fodder/15 percent sale on imported underwear.

At your door, the jingle rides
With a salesman’s smile
No more silent seas,
No more tuneless tides.

Charity

Charity

Birthmarks stamped on paving stones,

Sirens pound the corpse’s heart,

 

Bony,

Extenuated, they

Spread their palms,

 

Our eyes in shame,

Pockets lighter,

But minds at rest,

Spitting alms.

 

The cadaver is ripe

Marinating,

Now sell to it the mausoleum of all hope and desire.

 

Providing the rope

For them to hang themselves,

While leaping for a taste of the dangling carrot.

The noose tightens;

Toes wriggle,

Lights turned off.

 

The guillotine is traced with sugar,

 

The executioners

Beneath the pall of our chapels.

Congregations flood to

Cleansing houses, congratulating each other:

“The market has won. We have sold the dream”

 

As some others of purple blood

Gather their numbers

To condemn creeping death.

 

Promising that beneath the tiles lays the beach–

Eager to kiss their feet.