Dead Flowers #2.

Shorir er moddhye bhangche shorir
Bhenge choriye dichhi nijeke ami
Tomar jorayu’r protiti gronthi te.

After half a century of tireless masturbation
Under the blanket of your leathery breasts,

I’ve broken off the tip from my flaccid organ
And painted your forehead with blood.

Throw away my useless aching bones a
As far as your little finger can fling memories.

Throw me away so no one can build me again.

Throw me under the tire treads of a tractor
Let my bloated stomach burst and impregnate the streets the lampposts this city

With 3 million unborn babies of lust.

Ei shohor tomar noi,
Ei shorir amar noi,
Ei shohor baatil tokma pawar ashai
Bose ache, tomaar chokh cheye.

Ask me why my armpits my throat my tongue doesn’t taste as intimate
As your heroes who lust for unbroken hymen.

Ask me why the poet doesn’t kiss his muse’s ass out of gratitude

Why writing another urine smelling poem is unnecessary.

Throw me away, and don’t look back

Dying cities don’t need your empathy
To end.

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