the states

the states

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.

Kaptaan, inshallah
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.


I am afraid.

I am afraid.


The checkpost is still up.

We are fighting for the checkpost.


Carry the portable radio reciever from the props wadrobe at FDC

In case the policeman decides, in spontaneity, that he wishes to switch alligiences.

আর নকশাল।

The camps breeds two strands:

I. You are the deep state. You may or may not survive the rollbacks and coup d’ètats which audit like primary school routines. In the latter case, and if you have kept your head low enough, you die a Mosaddegh. If not, you may, depending on future fiduciary happenstance, be accorded a posthumous state burial. The former does not exist.

II. You stay in the camp.

Art: Yasmin Jahan Nupur

Bhadralok 1-16

Bhadralok 1-16

You are on auction
Half a century after
The floods plundered Bhola

Her stretched linen
Serviced future PoWs
To rift valleys

Heartstrings deployed to
Paddy fields

evacuated at
Half-mast to your father’s funeral

You learned
To fold your arms,
To accommodate session jams

To crack the whip
At state television
Lunchtime specials

To manicure
Irrigation channels,
Subways to withstand the dearth of coverage

To employ mid-water trawls
Ensnaring currents
Impaired of Capital

The 90s engender
Fairy tales at zero point,
Sandbags are extinct,
A homecoming

Cock hammer spur
Burn tariffs
Fiefdoms sound the clash of luminaries,
Charcoals commissioned
To daub a new people’s hegemony

Bunkers rehabilitate
Into college sweethearts
Into handshakes built on swampland
Into fangs monopolizing betrayal
Into balms flirting with the cantonment budget
Into midwives courted by centenaries of resistance
Peeling rinds of delta, re imagining time zones, seeding clouds for latitude– platoons patronizing orphaned coastlines, sights charring helicopter money

Can I borrow your table manners?

Artist: Unknown

IDK,ghalib,An Anti-Semite’s firstdefense Shdntb Trudeau

IDK,ghalib,An Anti-Semite’s firstdefense Shdntb Trudeau

There are certain questions shooting through your head while you sit there, And perhaps you have already started reading what i have written for you,

And now those same questions are shooting to the surface, and

I. Is this really poetry?
II. Nazrul is rolling in his grave.
IV. Why is four before three; it remains: this is not obtuse enough.
III. This is shit, if this is poetry, i can do this too.
You can, and you should.
But maybe you aren’t,
Maybe you are,

But not as much as you’d like to,

that’s where you come in.


post script wise, though, i guess i started because i wanted to harpoon various verbose sages, as is youth’s compulsion to do, (also bcoz i like how certain words sound)
but i guess, they were the lion, the camel, and the kid altogether, at once, twice, and when you harpooned one, the other’s came in to shift doubletime, and so,
the literary page of the newspaper of record read “is poetry dead?”
i type again and since i am not marty mcfly,
the headline does not change,
but rather, note: slow, something rather incredible happens,
new talent, joins the prophetic ranks, and now, to the new initiate’s credit, with copious amounts of mental gymnastics, the former son edicts that:-
“our young writers are not breaking the rules, most are just trying to mimic former greats.”
and yeah.
so on, and so on, so on, as zizek, amidst snorting cocaine, would say (convulse?)

XIV. When We Stop Sitting Open-legged,

XIV. When We Stop Sitting Open-legged,

Afghanistan gets its curricula Fahrenheit 451ed.

Motor cycles become chests: unshaved without a TelePrompTer.

Sepia copies of bodies turn into the burqa avenger.

I spring out of bed to put my blouse on,
Granny had already had the talk,

Crunch coco puffs,
Sip orange juice,

Ma cums on my legs

Run fo’ da ball,
Shower with ma’ friends,

I start to understand, as my shorts turn red,
Why “Ami bhalo ma na, Ami super-mom”

Let the gentlemen get the rubber;

This time–the only time,
 I am allowed to–
When my underwear hits the floor,
As the Table lamp flashes dim.

Pohela Boisakh, which rubs the sun off its eyes, and sees Pakis in Muhammed Ali’s bebop bull’s eye, can only reassert the Bangali Jati–
with CCTV.

I am on rickshaw, with a three piece on.
I am alone, or with a friend, preferably female.
The boy with his collar undone asks me in a tone befitting a saint to lift my orna from the tires so that I am not mislead into strangling myself, because he cannot bare the sight of my breasts.

Artwork: Veronika Bromová’s Open Legs from 1996.

NaPoWriMo: Day 14

XIII. 7-5-7–For you

XIII. 7-5-7–For you

Wanted you for dinner,
But I shan’t deny,
You were too fire to swallow.

Pray tell, ocean rafts you had
To drought for a drink
Of the aftertaste to bite.

With no shotgun in your hand,
Dreamers drone to doors,
Farewell, my friend, you–
are forever sand in my eyes.

4th stanzas are false;
They lie to us.
Do not listen.
Khomota nei.
You: As if someone was pouring salt on my cunt for all these years.

Artwork: Veronika Bromovás: “Open Legs,” 1996

NaPoWriMo: Day 13