Gulshan-e-Iqbal (Not Defence)
Massaba, Naved and I are bunking class to sift through telephone directories. This is true. And not contested.
enforced until it wasn’t. Searching until we weren’t. Almost always meeting until we weren’t. And yet Turkish rom-coms were always tolerated.
like a cloud seeded dubai september can talk me into swearing you in myself.
there is a rotation and a half between breaking your fall and everything going back to normal.
where i have never been.
Arre yaar, keya hae? (2014)
glitching the moment skype combusts and the entire eastern grid icebergs into what we had for lunch.
Sock it to me
crazy for you, baby there are 20 seconds of calltime left and the runway is closer to the shore than your uncle’s copper escort will ever be.
1. flimsy pretences turning right at bijoy ekattur
16. ঘুম, তিনি প্রতিবিপ্লবী।
18. empty plates: tawa searing noodles+unpeeled potatoes.
21. balcony railings: your thighs lounging before the storming of the bastille
22. purana paltan at a retirement ball for social democrats.
35. plainclothes: he says. i still don’t really believe you.
48. peacock: you tried again. even though the first time was a mess. and the opportunity cost had become stone filled pockets.
81. under the bridge: his pedals kickstarting a stampede after you picked up from the fifth stall from the middle, where he taught you to grow up, fusing recognition, thinning your hair with each carress.
87. zero point an oeuvre of russian literature:
shortcuts for when you say one thing but want to say a thousand
106. 15 January, যেখানে ভয়ের অবসান ঘটে।
That feeling when khuni hasina jobab de warps off the kalabhavan roof staring bcl down within a pound of meat treble picking up widows dissolving into a hung jury ershad brain drains knocking down the last stiff ones before. before. and there are. i must say. dominions built on moribund deltas and the nuclear family and the idea of the orient. his alma matter folds up the excess fabric of a tenure signing off detroit jute mills. and i cannot believe they still have not privatized the railways. that this survey does not count the kid with the tempu gear shift, sucking on a bottle a cap as part of the baby boom and all your guardians are hooked up, blood pressure cuff saggy, veins popped, bruised, ready. table fan charring 22 khusputtalikas. into men. into men. into men. into solitary. by complexion. by desire to be seen.
There are no kids at shibbari more anymore.
where they stare down sabres of lightning 7 years down to 3 and 5 (as if) always swerving right into missing bodies unsubstantiated salwar kameez listed in the morgue catalog carnations stuffed into barrels fooled into a state of awe eyeballs knocked off stage floating into space richochetting off and into red fort walls counting the ways i miss you with cabinet meetings in which he acts aloof all night and has it struck from the record of ettiquette that prevails in the fog that passes as the streets that must return home those accepted demands to that future where you hit me and i smile.
Until they are.
highlight and contour
her eyes peer over the kiosk:
a menagerie of how i wished i had looked at midday.
bored, black blazers betraying fumes,
heart in a sling,
oversized and stage 4,
until they get home
to not afford the lives they had been busy selling.
mascara and scowl
there is this security guard on the first-entrance to the permanent campus, near where the excavator meets the canteen. Her eyeliner game is on point.
dhola shirt-ghamcha belt
sweat assumes fishnets on his back. This image is so overdone that it is by this point an expression of lust, of engines, and, most importantly of winning without getting your hands dirty.