Debasish Parashar

This Evening Is Not For Love Poems


This evening is not for love poems
We can just sit quiet and indifferent
You know what I mean?
You know I know
It is fine even if you don't
I still remember that sweet December
You sitting by my side
Life was so beautiful
I still remember you holding a green umbrella against a sophist sky
grey with tales
And your eyes rainy with words
It did rain that evening
It really rained
This evening is not for love poems
This evening is not for love poems
This evening is political
This red river of blood that separates us and unites You and Me is a political triumph
This indifference is strategic
A Panopticon of hope
Still imprisons me like the bronze statue from Harappa buried for ages
Just to be alive
This evening
Let us rather dream
Like they do in love
Let us be rebels for a cause
Like they do in love
Let us doubt, disagree and deny
Like they do in love
Conflict is a hungry chameleon dancing wild in a puritan carnival
And a carnival is true
This evening is not for sweet love poems
This evening is too many and too much

(Appeared in multiple journals in multiple languages)


Roots of Nirvana


There is a city inside your body


There is a city inside your body
noisy, cloudy and ancient

Just that
I have inhabited its ghettos to fill up
its silences

I have lived its margins like a dangerous supplement
resisting and fighting
the blue hours
scattered around your eyes

There is a city inside your body.
I have inhabited the corners of that city
clumsy
and rain-clad
gathering roots of nirvana.

How lovely
the way
you spread your city skies and I embrace its moon
dimmed by the light-holes of your citylights !

Very often than not I steal
stars from your skies.

I bury them in

moidams of memory with legends of dead kings
and local heroes for them to transcend spaces of memory and life.
Stars stolen from your therapeutic skies can paint hues of

trivanga times.



Fuck You, Pundit Bukowski


(To Charles Bukowski)


You wrote so much so soon
Fertile as always in days not of poetry.
Your publisher probably said
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

You taught us the art of not giving a fuck.
A hotel room huffed and puffed with cathowls and sweat.A dreamer was drunk and doubly displaced from the market.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

You called them whores, not sex workers.
Silken thighs. Handcuffed desires. Drunken battles. Vernacular bedsheets.Rosebud eyes. Folded blindness. Foetal thrusts.
Fuck you.Fuck you.Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

An uncensored self is Editors' nightmare.
You stripped them with your uncensored wit. Mocked them. Tickled them. You do what you do. Your bonemarow is real.
Fuck you man.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

(Originally appeared in Ramingo’s Porch, Italy)


Drunken Selfies


I am little drunk right now
as if I am naked and shot at point blank

for a ban

Drunk as if smitten by this
night lazily
femme fatale with disheveled cloths in her boudoir

Kamayani

This night is a crazy melancholy with eyes of longing
A pair of eyes with viraha can be so attractive
All puzzles are

I am so drunk that I can see
I can hear clouds killing birds with a tipsy sun and I can smell the sun breathe
I wish birds were a republic of sentiments
could fly a bachata
sensual and sexy
could fly like a frizzy piece of jazz cutting Van Gough's ear into pieces
Darshana is drishti

I am drunk right now
Really drunk

Sometimes my nights are full of dualities and paradoxes like drunken selfies
Sometimes erotic like a lazy husky voice

An oasis a plateau a carnivore a serpent
a prarthana an idiom a circle a kiss
a mrityu a confession
a moksha an apology
a shringara a trivanga
a karma an apasmara
a lihaaf a doha and what not

My nights have many faces
but not a ban

I wish I could fear death more than I fear formalities


(Originally appeared in Kweli journal, New York)

Perfumed Gossamer


I love the way
You look at me

In odd seasons of the year
You deserve to kill
beautifully

I start
like poppies dried in sunshine

your hair
wet
yesteryears of monsoon

your skin
a perfumed gossamer
draped in scented tears
becoming poppies

In odd seasons of the year
you look beautiful
and
you look at me
with those
black unsolicited eyes
making yourself
more inevitably believable


that
I die at the end of that gaze of yours
like always

just to reborn
like seeds becoming sunflowers
in a field after tillage
insanely yellow
stupidly hopeful.

History of love is a history of inarticulation.

 


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