I wanted it to be 270
Four steps forward every amputation,
My rental at your park
For your 1:00am gluttony,
Your cum on my tits
The moleskin at the brewery.

Arm in pocket
Your donation at the gala,
I’ll be your bag of bones
To drop in the basket-case,

No lipstick on the collar
Home along the whisky tracks,
Tough slog at work
I am gonna turn in.

Photograph: Christopher Doyle, Mark Lee Ping Bin/In the Mood for Love


Three Poems

Three Poems

His joints grew breathless
Like theaters swelling
To the eye of the storm

Late 20s, early 30s,
Wrapped in a blanket;
Hammers to the levee.

Lingering for your ribs to
Sink into mine.

Meritocracy and Grind

Meritocracy and Grind

Filibuster of secretary,
lap dog,
out of order elevator;

your blinds,
demarcations of
literacy drive,
Honor roll
Prenup at the registrar’s;
Elbow grease for every roommate burnt out on Ritalin

Tagore saved you from millennials,
So your children are nightclubs in suicide nests;
Family funds fuel bombers during the national parade;
Plaques are “Employee of the Month” when hot-mics infiltrate fire exits.
You enjoy funding documentaries about the next slumlord transitioning to app-designer,

The office is IKEA with an Espresso machine.
Her takeout stops appetizing.
We are to increase efficiency.
Discover the internet of things.
Reduce costs.
No handouts
How are we?
Take care.
And this how it was when we were up,

Mannequins weren’t guillotined,
Husbands sanctioned choke holds,
Reserve Armies expired on the shelves of motherhood,

Photograph: Lucy Rugirello/ Los Angeles Maritime Museum



Macau claws digging into my forearm
She started wearing contacts in the 6th grade
As an 11th birthday present her mother
Parlayed into a deferral on divorce proceedings.

Syrup weeping over scrambled eggs
The answering machine you promised
You’d use after you graduated into a career transcribing
Shit smeared northern Irish bastilles has fallen into disrepair.

8 hour trimmings and fond
You are a fossil in an unmarked grave
Nightcap in the hands of an alcoholic

fostering co-worker grit.

The Anatomy of a Mourning

The Anatomy of a Mourning

Flanked by kin
Holding up the stretcher,
The white sheet charting your casing like the afternoon mowing down inner cities.
The mosque hurling the compassionate to your side
To temporarily wreck their composure
Uncovering how you were a pillar of the community,
Your tenants took a furlough from their inflation adjusted lives
And stuffed their mouths and shot their feet under the flash of cold showers.
Doorbells ducked into tin-foil wraps,
Dirty dishes into slumber parties going through laminated albums

No one said it was your penchant for red meat,
Or the hostility of habits to diabetes,
It was: ‘remember how he used to keep to himself mostly, but was a good man.’
It was: ‘he is survived by his wife, five children, and ten grandchildren,’
The likes of who will gargle the holy water used to bathe their wounds.

Industries of sorrow 

Industries of sorrow 

Periodically, pension off memories
From assembly-lines,

And shuffle them into greeting cards.

The principal characters of your stories have forgotten their lines,

The audience’s faces have begun to tighten in barely restrained dismay,

The stage hands have all clocked out and de-unionized.

Strobe lights bounced off walls,

Painting obscenities along the corridors,

Redeeming friendship coupons.

Jumeirah listed as a deductible on the paycheck.

Lifeguard towers are cozy.

Almost enough to atone the wagon ride.

Not the front door,

Not the Gas station shoplifts,

Not the Construction-site Hand-jobs,

The In-utero tempest.

Investor-State Dispute Settlement

Investor-State Dispute Settlement

Promissory Note
You have matured as an aneurysm
Your use of pronouns are seldom and provoke want.

Clutch Free Throws
As we approach tip off some under the bleachers fuck you has captivated the hearts and minds of the nation: alimony is finally off the table.

Pompoms-a breakaway NCAA
The parole board has green-lighted proposals for the whites in their eyes to use all available tools to combat recidivism.

The scuttling fishermen are hard boilers in a B-Movie.

Mother-ships of Convenience
“What would you say to the allegations?”
“Unfounded in scripture. Unholy in their essence.”
“And the accusers?”
“Blasphemers, who believed they were wronged. Below-average GPAs,welfare queens, anti-depressant overdosers, would-be fornicators.”

Ceiling Fan
I wanted to tell you about my brother. He was born a few years after me. I barely remember the times he was a kid, not that he grew past it. He was one of those children who died in the death throes of smallpox. I would say that I miss him.

Photography: Patrick F.Tobin

Beached whales on the first day of thermidor

Beached whales on the first day of thermidor

Prelude: Angela Davis did not smell the back of this police van, khaki and turquoise, chins rested, glued to binocolars pinpointing us clubfooting across that giant lot of quicksand, where your expat, not immigrant, uncles have now erected gardens.

There are no men at bus stand at night
there are no men at the bus stand at 10:08 pm

You sssshh me because it’s the world’s best kept secret and that’s all you are telling. Even if i am the one the cashier on the graveyard shift at mcdonalds calls welcome back miss. And she’s loving your bangs, even post-mortem, and your stumps for fingers tornado the ranch and dollops of-effacing i am a pig and i am ready. The safe cracks. But somehow she forgets his lines and no you would not like today’s special with the sauce on the side, please.

Photograph: Robert Chappell & Stefan Czapsky

Welcome to Sher-e-bangla National Cricket Stadium, Mirpur, Dhaka

Welcome to Sher-e-bangla National Cricket Stadium, Mirpur, Dhaka

The southern entry gate greets me with baloon security guards and chest haired id cards restricting your any type of bottles, your glass bottles with or without caps, your vuvuzelas, your headphones shan’t let you throttle our gladiators,

And ofcourse food. No food. You have to buy the people’s food. Which will go towards funding the people’s politicians, and the people’s subsidies to the people’s corporations, and the people’s guns, and the people’s handcuffs, and the people’s jails to keep the people safe.

But RingID can keep giving out 4s, 6s and Outs in neatly printed orange placards.
You can secret chat, apparently.

The lower seats are only half empty. No. The lower seats with barricades are only half empty.

Paramilitaries on the roof,
There are no lynch mobs, yet. It is peacetime.

Match start delay due to the corporate hospitality boxes encountering flecks of typhoon, which uproot the fresh healthy food good life umbrellas, and render the airtel boundary wraps an autonomous Mexican wave,

And to our correspondent at the sidelines:

Thanks John,
The grass remains mattressed, but
There are quite extraordinary scenes which evoke bewildered herd references as rain and heavy winds rinse and pound the capacity arena. on occasion the crowd is heard chanting ‘bangladesh’ for minute haecceities, like the electricity blinking on/off, or thunderous sighs they are cordoned off from their loved ones because nature cannot not read maps.

Some spout conspiracies to this end like “it is only raining in the stadium, elsewhere else it is dry”, “the match is going to be abandoned because india is scared of us,” and ofcourse,
the thunderous, the death defying, the unimaginably creative “you suck.”
Which does not, i suppose, stand up dissing match standards in the post-mortem highlights reel.

Titantron screens images of victory in war, on the field and of.
The cricketers practice football.

Everyone has a ticket, but not everyone has a seat.


Yet, everyone has enough seat to remind the visiting opposition that they are the other at the party, and so will purr your ex-girlfriends name to distract you while you steady yourself at the crease

The required run rate climbs down,
The greater symphony humming jingoism fades like the last loops of an echo,
The chairs once clamored for are a voluntary empty, though,they do come equipped with scapegoats underneath.

Digital alarm clock font reads CONGRATULATIONS.

The People’s Republic of Disjointed Narratives

The People’s Republic of Disjointed Narratives

3:38 AM- the mosque at mohammedpur is closed.

The steps are open, but we are not to wear our shoes.
We are all men, or are said to be men.
The security guard in cammo blows the security guard in navy,
Rahad notices this and immediately throws up laughter. We acquiesce and look. the guards, and they are not men, intentionally so, are seen retreating from their positions.

Generic bangla cinema hall music plays, preferably about want.

4:07 AM

It is my fourth mountain dew.
The intersection of the four roads are a convex of parked buses, which are usurious in the daytime. The conductors are missing.
Topu complains about the crisscrossing cement mixers, driven like ambulances,
A billboard losing it’s gum-arabic for the fresh new thing,
Overpasses becoming gardens.
It is the serenade of development.

9:46 PM on the day that hardly exists

We have finished our banquet at Chankarpool.
The bill was split. I paid both halves.
The other wanted to write patronizing prose on men with rolling pins stretching dough.
But am advised against it.
I am sensuous.
I have been reading phenomenology.

4:52 PM- it is pay day at chandpur tea estate, chunarughat, habiganj

The Cashier shuffles change as the tea workers’ fingers hang from window rails,
A raise has been in effect for 3 weeks,
85tk a week.
69tk a week.
Maybe the plantations owners are kind.

7:17 PM

Tomorrow i will see a broken-winged canary playing duet with mother,

a monkey with a noose on,

and twenty-three tea-gardens rallying for their land, and against the special economic zone proposed on the people’s land

For now. It is

an ink well of around me.

24 days in february

24 days in february


Disassembling your vertebra,

Into sepulchers hooking anchors to the bed of your mismated imagines, through mute button, where you are struck by baby i am tired, or a morsel of eggs, roti, and a before you sip, you realize some metaphor about the ocean throwing up eroticisms only infrequently, and these infrequencies are the ones you tune in for, along the tracks to the west of the burial estate, where you hope you die cradling yours, and yours what the state-schools taught you a factory-line would look like, and the same party line you toe in your jackfruit for teacher contribution to throw back at you at the engineering geometry set, yours, contribution to society, yours, yours, girl as future as past-wife tugging your arm for pocket money, as you bite your teeth and become your father thinking as your son, as a caricature of change as caring-center, as heart-beat in February’s fields, whatever that means–

A mediation on the Boyfriend.

Robi nilkhet abasik elaka,

Sedan’s Front bumper in tundra,
the ambulance limps off of terminal reds counting cyclical to 199 and back to peanuts shelling, thudding, at one with a tarmac in seige.
Your chocolate, chewing gum eyes belie your hatred of rom-coms, and the hawker pelts you a dozen, but not before your bargain reaffirms the story of men. And chivalry places herself beside you, and she is heard dislocating her execution from narrative, because the narrative is the groom as the magistrate takes off his shoes, and the synthesis of the abortion clinic sans reciept, brewing ballast, no cargo of slut or 8 weeks, or 9 weeks, or 9 months, which as sam bee pointed is a caesarian in parlance, and the narrative of ultra freedom presented with billboards dripping in supervision of basting syringes, garlanded by sanitary napkins;
Kintu, Amar chai sheratai, tai amar jonno only the means of machinery on the farmland; the antiseptic vikrampur mistir bhander can rollick in his meadows, with his ironed, dress, and the tint-sangbadics chained to a uturn with islamophobia walkie talkies, will cobble manuscripts
For minivans giving out am_rosh thumping to rokto lal, rokto lal, rokto lal

Sumaiya-r proti shagor

proud sponsor of
Onar ta birochito amar ta to shorochito.

Sama-on bollo apnar kobita chara ar kono kobita porina. Shomoy nai.

Ripon ideal college er hoye keno dhaka colleger shamne gelo. Ey shahosh niye labaid er intern-daktar ra onek gayan dilen. Oni keno eden college gelen na, jeta ekti dharmik purush er kache theke asha kora jay. Shudu mehmaner jonno noy. Cashew nut biscit birat mullo-hrash-er jonno. Jonno

Dokhin city corporation moyla wala ke 3 tar shomoy ashte boleche. Uni eshechen 10 tay, ekti shushil chakor-er kach theke ja asha kora jay, to shey ek dhok dharalo pani pan kore, bharot-er etihash shomporko boi khujte gelen.

Onar age, boro chul chilo. Uni bolen kintu boro chul rakhle biye hoy na. Meye ra pochondo kore na. To onar ekhon choto chul. Uni amader chul katte nished korlen.

To Dhaka, je onek kotha bolle.

In descending order, no chronology.

Tsc-ir bathroom er pechon, ek khachay cricket,
Rickshaw wallar theng-e lathi,
Marjan-er hate mic, mic e shunay dilder-er paris kabbo,
Boi melar majhe,
A police-watch-lamp clinging to a visibly irritated orchid of comms equipment. Like in the hills, where the bushes were the hotbed of checkpoints curried in chalk: SHIBIR, with pretense.

the SATV reporter who inquired the wisdom of using anti-bangla on 20th February.

First as language, then as cane

Proti shong-jogey nirapotta,
Like in aid packages,
Slingshot off aircraft carriers,
swimming with a coast guard escort,
Stamped with the longshoreman’s exemption from import duty,

And this is all assuming there is a humanitarian corridor, and the third world nation in question has not crucified the United nations In last night’s state of the union, with hashtag “foreign interests,” or worse, hashtag “foreign vested interests”

The Stall is a cowlick 

But those are pipe dreams. Power doles dissertations, with one hand tied behind it’s means of production, on the importance of hard work and that there is no such thing as entitlement–in this world, it will add.

This dissertation is not written, rather it is reproduced in the iotas where rats in television store cheese, or the breakup one can lighthouse from weeks ahead; so you will see it in the nuclear family strong-arming it’s daughter on the societal pitfalls of marrying outside the caste, and happens regardless of the amount of years in bride school; this will usually be accompanied by the claimed foreboding coercions that are gossips, and so like the prime meridian “amar mey hoyle ekta thappor ditam” or “mere feltam,” and finally consolation “thak bhabi,” and expunction, where she will be known and thought to exist, but through constant replication of the discourse of the fallen Madonna distilled through the male gaze will be extinct or at the very least archived.

Sayeed Kokhon protigha korechen je uni onar babar nam niben na.

Because, the inheritance tax is a 100%

Artwork by Rahad Mahmud

An Anti-Production of Scully & Mulder

An Anti-Production of Scully & Mulder

Scully and Mulder were back this week,

And so was back nostalgia as SuperBowl halftime shows, and halftime puppys, and halftime anti-apartheid insurgents as latex, and i was still torn, at the time of writing, whether it was all guerrilla marketing for an un-red-lined middle class, or guerrilla marketing for the Nets’ repatriation movement in Brooklyn, so Jay-Z, the pretend Prokhorov, could finally have a chance of not sliding checks past the internally displaced, or a revival of the celebrity as activist, or the celebrity as revolution. But then, i thought, whether it mattered if the hand that feeds you, also removes your lungs, block by studio, timbre by timbre, sonorous LP by sonorous LP. Infirmaries built atop billboards. Soup kitchens built atop Prison abolition. Isn’t that what the Black Panthers were about?

Endogenous depression
I never enjoyed how scully was presented as the party-popper corporeal, as if not delving into conspiracies about FEMA death camps was anti-humanist. and then what? And as if Mozambique was liberated by the age of reason, and not the carnation. And someone at the av club pointed out that “my struggle” should have been named “our struggle” or at the least “my struggle against your struggle, against it.” But, we are supposed to identify with mulder, however crazy his theories, were, however, ultimately, unfalsifiable and full of hope, for a world that would fashion hope in nylon strings, and mail it back to you, as hallmark card, sweated in polyester.
Depression from immanence, from consistency,


From car crash,

From brick window,

From clubbing to the temple,

From expulsion from matriculation,

Or Ralph’s death,

Or mother’s anniversary.

That was the kind, Scully was talking about.

So, we had to entertain Mulder; against pulling the curtains on a world which had no monsters-of-the-week. Because, and she never said this, the monsters were never under the bed; they were in mother’s room, they were, the whistle underneath the librarians desk, the creases in pant-suits, free jazz in a faraday cage, parliamentarians bailing-out the parliament from self-aggrandized bonfires, frats eulogizing cult of personalities with assemblages of “disco sucks,” kids parkouring up pick-ups for documentarian lens-flares. Blinding watchdog binoculars, locked in on fluoride cabals, third world agency infiltrations.

Indiscriminate. even you. Mr. You follow the drugs, you get drug-addicts and drug-dealers, you follow the money, you follow the money.


Permaculture and Craft

Permaculture and Craft


I could not tell

If the desire to be known

Was a good desire.

A desire held firm, in the natural.

In the facts and the timetables, i had failed in.

Or, whether the very contemplations of these questions were rationalisations

For my body, being grounded in the infirm.

Because the impostor can never recognize herself.

The mirror splits in two, or three, or fourteen

The tributaries forbid any attachment.
And, is born the writer who writes for herself.

Herself, channeling her ancestors who poured their jugs of sweat onto their typewriters, to rid them of the, or their, subconscious. To rid them from questions of photojournalists, and blog writers, who inquired, that

As a woman, as a lesbian, as a welfare recipient, a public housing adherent, how does it…

And by this point the rest of the question turns into a froth of inconsequentials, required for column inches.

You must write. You must do politics. You must love police precincts in firestorms. And you must write it in 0s and 1s; write about programming, fingers treating garments, toddlers drooling into bibs, witches being burnt at the empty rice bowl, the quarters of divestment, the suburbs of flight, the immolated without literacy, pangs out reaching for press-conferences, and love without the blackmail tugging viscous at expression,  at friends-nights-out. at bare shoulder. at drag. at stroke. at throe, at grandma cradling grandson, like overpass sleeping bags clench their fists for cash, or how my pillow was the scene of my first time. when i learned about the euphemism. not when he can spread his legs in the cage,

and so, what are the joys of married life?

To missing riding pillion

To missing riding pillion

For who,
crowdfunders are sourcing rape
Through borders
To satiate the insatiated,

Sourcing them, penny-less from the 14th,
where foundation patina from 40s government buildings reek to reveal culture.

culture, where rapist as thirst and whore as assassination are equal reckless abandon,
culture, where tradition and science are sync, in brutalizing polls, flow charts and
Pies stating in cold, or cold as mined warm, data, where, when, the who never in question, situationally, rape has and must occur. Occur as passive ultra-natural boomerangs to wardrobes to history’s excluded suffrage.
Where all your sons are the darwan’s sons,
The dalit’s sons,
The tea worker’s sons,
The beggar’s son watching brioche buns dive in and out of LEDs.

Your comments section, your indents proclaiming sovereignty for the male breadwinner, are empty shells, for
Whores in detention, upending the dais, the desktops reading commandments, scratching the chalkboards:

No rapists. Only cultures.
No rapists. Only cultures.

Photograph: Hengameh Golestan

Bhai. Amar. Mon. Ta. Kharap.

Bhai. Amar. Mon. Ta. Kharap.

তিতাস গ্যাস severed 33,841 feet of distribution pipelines in Dhaka and Narayanganj, disconnecting illegal connections to around 900 households,

Nilkhet More

Pother bondhu filling station,
your only friend, if you only had a car

Padma oil co ltd
in whose bosom, i identified with driver mama, ofcourse, mama,
who shuttles migrants to agrani bank in cuff links and holds his niece a little too close, when versing other capital Mamas on the remittance game;
the prologue for carpet bombing lowercase mama when the left turn grazes other mamas, whom i nonetheless have learned to swear at.



Quality lubricants from british petroleum
identified with jumper cables extended from the trunk
and slid into foundry to melt,
into helping mama with Mama’s car troubles.
to pour cast iron over voting patterns, cracks in stoves, who had already made up their minds
about octane and diesel prices, or CNG/oil conundrums,
because 13k minus benefits does not translate well in foreign currency reserves.

So, The Jumper Cables thought twice before impregnating newly-weds.

Before setting up social-safety nets for second-hand-condom retrievers.