Selections from a Broken Strike

Selections from a Broken Strike

they are singing the internationale in 3 number bipod shonkhet on a pick up streaming slush at 60km/h into Moakhali. there are two buckets of ata simmered glue which will not bring Christine Lagarde, loaded with conditions, to town and harp
যেমন দাম তেমন জিনিস for the next session on the 8th 5 year plan.

27 Intersection: the DNCC sodium batis vs the South’s LEDs cuts through the median strip of agent orange trees for the ruins as public works winding down Allah Karim.

halim, lips fading nude lipstick, nobel, owing 500 for eternity, are flicking smokes, burning tires at the break of dawn, a whole half an hour before the checkpost at Baitul Mukharam is expected to swing for our heads.

karwan bazar is on rollerblades and i am out of breath and being juggled like the guts of enemy property where the old city brickkilns have exile for eyes, so we play to the score, and the mandaps are redressed: they win, through mahishasura, through scribes, his foot throttling at our windpipes and. and, only sometimes is there is a lathi charge to tell us so.





tall tall shoes make you closer to reach.
the ধসে পড়া city block between your sideburns, toll tickets on ভাঙা jaws, and the crisp of your stubble is closer.
pink shirt sinking into your meditarrean myth skin is even closer.
the letter you will send when my skull rests on your kneecap will try to leave us, then the closest, ball point bruises to draft an old new set of relations that must have a bibliography to consummate.
the letter would not be mistaken. we needed references, such as when the goli was running from blank catridges distributed out like pre-election mithai, chasing it into tongs, into messes, into raids, into cases filed at ‘ungodly’ hours, into you, in bandage catalogue, summer dreaming for the last time, diagonal, across your face, clutching an anti-cutter; such as when the মিছিল was passing kalabagan bus stand, and you should have been in an emergency room but you were propping up against a rickshaw, then his arms, and then mine as blood spatter stained, curved, sonambulated into a wrecking ball.
Art: Letter: Evergreen Background, Maturam Chowdhury

Egaro Shindoor Goduli

Egaro Shindoor Goduli

আপ্নি কি অদের মতন?
yes, my love, আর আমি একদমি মাইন্ড করি নাই।
i am just imagining you. harnessed to that trawler, head-rested on corrugated tin; roof-panels lime with heat by the time you wake up.

josna, from undefeated canon, undoing the stitches that make you want me. tried on the temporary migrations of the earth and it’s rings of fire. spare arms protruding. sheowla distended with expectation. the ghat to an entire town succumbing to the runoff water of an only child.

মিরপুর থেকে কত দূর?
i m sorry but i will try to tell you from the parts i do remember. start at setara, where urns of kacchi are plated every hour. bam pa age onto safety no. 36, or if caught in the office rush, projapoti, blue with the ecosystem of commerce; fatigued at the dotted lines which once followed, Jica detours you onto 60 feet, where you will catch the city at gunpoint—
all rogue at the perimeters of a 16 crore strong trp, on its feet, in ovation, giving the benefit of the doubt to rubel on each of his excellent spells, on each delivery unrooting off stump, on each of his court dates, on each bail hearing: granted on the grounds of national interest.

at vibration the mtcl aisles speed-bump narrower, reserved seats filled by ellipses, by inverted commas, others, tollashi, others parlours in motion, and yet, others parlours in repose.

আর কেউ নাই।
i try to bend my unbendable legs, unhooked of the abstract that came with the body—to sew; sometimes, i start at the outlines. of things already existing. of where i am now, i am drawn to the shrubs, the white roses plastic with thorns. back home, mela red bangles reflect 1:1 onto gold bracelets. aviators jumping bunny-rabbit teeth: a sage en hajj into the marketplace, bending his seat into view of the mahanagar natto mancha: a must see poribeshona in upholding 21 dhara at ease at unnoto momshir. but the lassos of yarn get tiresome and repeated in dead weather i start trying to invent an aesthetic with dried ice, interminably sulking rain and strobe lighting, not the ones at the qasba with fountains as musical chairs, but the ones where excavation yields great civilizations, uncuffable, universal in motif. the ones plucking gate-flowers onto hear tucked behind seldom-seen ears. i try to end in the midst of mythmaking: the uttan boithok with a bashiwalla as the coda.

all the way up to you. the ghit of your lungi, teal with cheque. unbuttoned to the fifth. sawed off eyes fathoming the circumference of my chest, irregular heartbeat tilted to one side. you are caught in the moment, sweat blotting temple like a head-wound: juriye dilo chokh; the imaginations of you seeing me off at platform 6 curling into crushed letters, hands corralling at my hips underneath ceilings arching into lotus petals, but your fingertips lose breath of me at the onset of porjotok season, beginning gradually with the haor as sob story, as the failing harvest, and only then as heartbreak: puriye dilo chokh.

the objectives of your islamic state

the objectives of your islamic state

Let Nurul Amin return and i will unbox a clerical error to make khulna’s head wound, simultaneously, flow to the east and always to the west of the hooghly.

I will board the postal train and get off at bhairab bazar. And through a spoonful of my second rasgulla at the garlanded mistanno vander, i will mince my words. I will watch the metre gauge crawl up Anderson Bridge and yawn at the scalloped hem of the man’s kurta touching the front of a post-independence rail; the slits panicking up his waist. The truss drafting diagonally so even the most observant onlooker sees only the receding troughs of each scream; the floor beams tearing with brittle nails into the sheets of second class; suspended exes bracing for a joint electorate. The passenger cabin, deboned, hanging skin from their necks serrated, registered, rationed dandakaranya, is measuring itself by the angle at which it rounds the cape of good hope, attending as merchants, today, and still, today, plying, afim, and nil, and the treasury to stand upright.

You cannot bleed at the mandir, ploughed by dim light into the single hours of a fire. The dispenser at school will remain unstocked 8 months a year, but you can go. And you will. And they will prey your arguments as the births and deaths of their population, an unrelenting process, an unchanging process, a forever process hinging on the persona to bear, on the 35mm film cannisters filled with solemn occasions, with stretch marks, with dares overdrawn, and underrepresented, with sindoors routed for lifetimes on how to greet your man in the morning.

22 Khusputtalikas

22 Khusputtalikas

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.

All Quiet

All Quiet

Blue raincoats
like shawls draped
Over shanties,
An inflection point for the generals
Who have for decades fought co-option of the 969
By liberal arts journals,

House Arrest
Your father’s colonial struggle
Has been amended to serve
In the trenches
Infested with secession,

Naf Nodi culls
Observation towers
Sandbags gunned Type-81
Jihad: a transaction,
Un-licensed brokers
Federal grants
Issuing annexation

The watering hole is
Contoured as a red light district
With the UNHCR’s
Revolving door policy of look don’t touch
For locals after a day of swindling Reagan Democrats

The Sequel
Longest stretch of tombs on earth,
A buffet of deck chairs
Umbrella peddlers
And coconuts for tourists
To etiolate their quota of
Third world unforeseens

Photograph: Christophe Archambault/AFP

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.


beyond: unbreachables

beyond: unbreachables

and. so. i wrote this in

Mitzvah- regarding eight documents from the red corridor

“land to tiller, hope to pilfer,

Your struggle for busts,” Green Hunt

Cantos the Party’s Subpoena into portable iterations for masses, so that they, and we, only in relation to they, might in their amusement arks, built on bubble fiat;
international simulacra spanning slutty as air hostess, traversing in hebetude, the penchants of prostitutes to promiscuity.
Blazoned by our ideologues, they shall surrender, without demonstration, their vaginas, their penises, their penises, their vaginas, their neutered xx. xy. XXYY.XYY.XXX.48, XXXX.49, XXXXX. their audited chromosomes for lysenko, as he wheels their cots into nourishing stoves, pouring them, and this. to mention that we are also in the tub with them, our, their soggy batter molded into insurrectionary great leaps forward

Of charu’s politburo posing under green screen intravenous with the tiger reserve, where she had already succumbed to the prey-of-the-day, to the

bauxite, the ore in the collapsing mines breaking into choirs crooning hey ya, hand me some manganese, some nickel, some Bhattacharjee mouthfucking tribal uncivies; Nandigram intoning Hey Jude to the cover of Ma Mati Manush, and the Neo-Jiangxi Soviet crumbled under in it’s own beat.

P.S. Annie Lebovitz was no were to be seen. and So. the electorate complained about not being able to own land in Srinagar.

the Renault picket groove in iambic pentameter. not really. why would i?


the worker’s were agitating in ways which affronted public decency.

and so our correspondent Leyla Zana filed these couplets channeling interviewees under Article 301 of the penal code:


our pensions bleed for the turkish soil
these unpatriots, in hell, may they boil


indeed, stainless hard work will make joy
for country, for capital won’t remain coy

Standard & Poor’s:

Cotillard, won’t you, oh won’t you, break my picket groove?

Suchagro Medini

watching your efficiency in training, I can only say that you’re truly a force built with the spirit of the War of Liberation,

And this will speak to the love in our hearts, the love, which jostles plate tectonics as if she were fingering herself, her population, her son, her head of IT, her sister, the Berliner, her Russel, her Russel, her Russel, who if his grey matter were not corrosion to major javelins, were he not subterranean indemnities, were he not her mother’s son, were she not a call girl for festoons, like her husband, my father, for the men without tongues to parrot shuvo. shuvo. shuvo. dins, for my Fazila-tunnesa, mother who was so slow to fellatiate father’s lithosphere, so he could not hand the ringer to Jamil, his Shafat Jamil, his Shafiullah, his Osmani, his unamed General who was aware but was not aware, who was elegied but was not elegied, was efegied, but not efigied, and my father’s sons, Huda, and Noor, and Dalim, and Farooq, and Rashid who were in the lavatory, on the roof, the patio, the lake, upstairs to the answering machine, where my father hung up and তাকে রক্ষা কর. and Russel, their brother–the national whipping boy, the 21, the 26, the 16 huddle, point, screenplay that we heard from our verandas:

Her Russell,

Her Russel.

                                            Her Russel.


কবলিত! কবলিত! Sonderkommando

কবলিত! কবলিত! Sonderkommando

Pastiche, like all the others


-that said, they, not her,

not it, not foil archs,

makin’ bubble wrap,

memoir qwerty,

duel-speech balloon-duel

foil, not it, they, anti-thesise,

row, row, row, syntax,

Purr, as verb,


cell, vichy, cell, vichy, cell,

encrypt notre-dame

à cult de la raison ,

Today’s screening, overhead:



Action T4–

whether real or imagined,

Der Gefangene! Gefangence!

Wenn es einen Gott gibt muß er mich um Verzeihung bitten.



Muselmann, Inquilab,

scrap the Long Kesh off,

my, Soft Grip Wall Paper Stripper




on their 2am circumnavigations,

cumulative spunk, splat, plop,



babe, it’s

cold outside,

a roofie, for your thoughts

Those Incorrigibles, Those.

bur lesque quick feet, step-over,

lacan, won’t you please stand by the partisans,

Maquis: Mairéad

Amar khat ta dehi nore, ma, nipur,
6.7, and feints, and feints,
Recess our shovels,
Hydroelectric surjo sen er bangla never so fine,
Shake and hips, and hips,

And step, and ease,
Isshor, popover, kilos,
Collaborators, interchangeably
poristitir shikar


Le Meridian. Read about in Harper’s Bazaar.
–late edition, extra, extra. East Pakistani boiled egg, and seven, and eight,

Cymbal crash,
Picket Line,
strike enunciate,
Alamgir, get off your quota,

Have you lost your daughter to Revere’s merrill gel smudging found fathers?

Nuremberg, Nuremberg,
Who will precede your anchor chops,
Nuremberg, Nuremberg,
Tribunal-thwart house of saud,
Paltan, purana Paltan,
Tomar tak e dekhi phensedyl,
haat e dekhi ashbari,
chetonay shuni Pathankhot,
Shib Naryan er jhulanto srom,

Tui, razakar, Tui, razakar,
Ar stadium er bayonet jukti,
gola kata tangail er Sher er slan er jukti,
Is the one my mother woke up to:-

Done. Salaudin. Done. Mujaheed,
Done cartographer,


COP 21/theblackblocs are coming

COP 21/theblackblocs are coming

I. Kyoto

Paladin Clinton promises not to jerk off,
while the geographical inheritors of Fanon’s dream, stage a sit-in,
to delay capitulation to a binding nofap policy,
“But, you have raped the world, & now it our turn! We will avenge Bretton Woods, except he will now be tarzan, with a penchant for Oriental Memes”
Yet, the elephant is the room itself,
because the agreement is
–signed in cum–yes, the same, as on her dress.

II. Detente

Now, the vulgarity is slowly shed,
ofcourse, they are fully-fleshed adults,
“No, more shall we scar our mothers for life, as they open our doors uninvited”
this is where the analogy starts to break down,
(bcoz semen claims to be bottomless,
while fossilized dinosaurs are not, as such, reproduced to be reborn into greenhouse gases, at auturky)
Where were we,
Cognitive dissonance.

III. State of Emergency

Jack Ma,
the guy pops up incognito,
Says, that nobody goes to Starbucks for the coffee,
they go for the lifestyle,
vis-a-vis why Air France sponsors climate change commissions, when international aviation pokes holes in the ozone faster then a mil., yes you asshole(s), munching down the Champs Elysees?

IV. But, the immigrants,

Non-topic, Subjects are asexual.

V. Broken Windows

galvanize YouTube commentators calling for riot police to unionize

Art:-Bill Posters

Run Stiglitz Run.

Run Stiglitz Run.

Brazilian wheat: unconsummable,Keno?

To ki hoise?
Excess gets dumped after the markets reject it,
Ei jonno?
So, you get the rotten ha…
..Ar ki shunbo apnar tekhe

Krishok foshol kate,
Zamidar foshol beche,
Dokandar abar beche,
Foshol na kinle,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy,
Fosholer dam bare,
Zamidarer bulb jole
Foshol dhakay jay,
Foshol poche jay,
Foshol kome jay,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy.


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