Dreamcatcher #1.

Royina, I’ve heard the moon can still be seen,
From a corner of your terrace
In the oldest colony of the city.

The full moon.
The blood moon.

Shines, like a nightmare
And its cold light washes the tip of the mosque,
Beside my house.

Royina, there is a song my grandma used to sing,
When I was just a kid.

It said the moon is a land of miracles
And an old lady sits in
One of the craters
Waving her wand.

Royina, tonight is not the night, of the sane.

Full moons, have never been the muses of poets

They are darlings of the wretched.
They are the lovers, of wolves and the insane.

Who have learnt to live with cold moonlight, in their veins
All these years.


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.


Dead Flowers #1.

Shohor er raasta bhangche aaj, bristi’r jol,Protibader istehaar,
Ar amar jomiye rakha, tomake lekha chithi.

Some nights the rain pounds too hard
On my scalp on my skin

Seeps through the crack of my ass
And trickles down like urine
From wet dreams of a desert.

I’ve dreamt about deserts for so long now
My tongue rubs like sandpaper

On dark nipples of yawning prostitutes.

Tumi jano na kibhabe ami
Jol bnaachiye choli, ei shohor er ghat bhengeche bonya tohbil,
Ar motadorsher nongrami.

The mind, like every complex beehive

Can be broken into separate rooms inside its own captivity.

There is a kitchen, where salt pepper scissors litter a worn out cooking counter.

There is a bathroom that smells of loneliness and strands of your hair
Littering pipes.

There is a bedroom which has longed for childbirth

And has seen too many silent abortions, on wrinkled bedsheets.


Dead Flowers: Prologue.

Amar dewal’e dewal’e lekha sabdhanbaani
Aajke jodi juddho hoi,
Tomar haath dhore per hobo landmine’er bera.

Over years, we have shared rooms
Some secrets, and a typewriter.

Writing poems about young love,
Click of keys on dull afternoons
Lick of my fingers across your neck

Every night. Poems on paper.
Poems on flesh.
Poems everywhere, till we can’t breathe without sneezing in rhymes.

At the end of our affair, you threw the typewriter
Across the room
Where it fractures my skull, black ink mixes with my blood,

What a fucking mess we make.

Bhul kore dhuke porte chai aaj bikele,
Je para’te eksathe thake bidroher haathchaani,
ar tomar dewal jora bougainville.

There are men who wait outside
On the street.

Wait to build a house
Wait to create a house out of nothing,
But dead remains of the Earth.

They squat the roads, early morning
And their groins stink of madhouses.
I scratch dead skin in flakes
And watch as the house,
Waits to be built

Waits to be created,
Out of nothing, but hate.


Artwork by Caroline Westerhout.