Stars and struggles of love
The little cosmos inside you
had died a million deaths, and
like big bang
you’ve woken up from the comatose
hands that surrounded you.
Sex felt like a cage.
The body ached hence and forth on
a dying afternoon. The verandah
stood still, like the city
with yellow cabs and
a blackhole of
on the floor, inside, outside you.
I was just a soul; a lost balloon
wandering across. You were
the blade on my vein, kissing.
Promising me utopia.
We both lost, but the
stories remained. Dogeared memories
quagmired into lullabies. Unshaped
forms of existence
ventured into nothingness
to become someone else’s
Hello, are you
the one? The drug-filled psychedelia
runs amock in the kid lying on the station benches.
Because death is a bliss for him.
Hunger is but another mate.
The little streetbulbs twinkle on
a pitch black suburban night
like long lost dreams saying
goodbye. Hello, are you
We are soulless husks
swaying to and fro – like the
mindless boats floating across
a grey river. Our entities are ever
depressing, ever scampering,
ever so never fulfilled.
Like that station with fifteen platforms
and five million crushed
destinies, we are playing on a loop. Hello,
Bukowski, and the dog-eat-dog world
Universities filled with fire, and
student’s hearts with napalm.
Outside, eerie protests sparking day and night,
waiting for an explosion. There’s no blood in sight,
yet there’s gore everywhere.
Masks of happiness and facades of
anger is being shown in television
like soap opera. The local dialect
is a cache of bullets, the casteism
a burning weapon of mass
The Himalayas is silent tonight. ’tis a year
since it has rained thunder on the
humans and spared none, but now
it laughs at the darkness
that spreads the valleys. For a purge
is about to commence; Bukowski’s love poems
are propaganda posters to freedom here,
speaking in languages unknown yet
familiar, marked in bullseye,
covered in venom.
A war is being fought inside our minds
and a plague dominates our physique with
its brutish will. We are waiting for a spark,
inside the walls of the university.
Suvojit Banerjee is from India and the United States.
He started writing early, but found his niche in his early twenties. His works have been published in many Indian and International journals and magazines and featured in several anthologies. He currently works in a software company, and has worked as a lead writer/reviewer for a technology website.
He observes, sometimes giving up consciousness in return. It is a dangerous thing, this silent stalking of nostalgia, but he has a maddening urge. He follows the trail, from decaying jetties to swanky corporate buildings, picking up little breadcrumbs of memories and then giving them their due place in white and yellowed out papers.
He continues to juggle between poetry and prose, not deciding on where his heart lies. May be it lies in both of them, may be in none.
Find him online at:
*Featured image provided by contributor Sara Codair*