Come Gargee, Come my friend, come see my cubic existence.
Gargee would you call it living? Would you call it mortality?
Or is it my final game of chess
Between the dying and the dead?
I have phony page 3 smoke that glides through my scalded heart. Every Evening.
I have a banker’s blood that denies the existence to my heart.
I have sat crouched like a dog at... the reprobate feet of this world
To find the bitch in it.
Like a roach I have walked side by side with other roaches in this city,
Like a mosquito I have flown alongside other malignant mosquitoes of the parish.
In genuine darkness I have dived longingly inside a woman
Just to find that I never did have any living quarters there.
I have gone to placid theatres in my Coca Cola dreams
Dressed like that queer columnist.
I have blown away the scenes of deceit like a weak candle.
I have no animated camphor in my sweat Gargee
That would enrage me.
What would you call this Gargee?
I have tried to crucify myself in my insignificant bedroom
I have tried to understand the suffering of Christ.
I have wanted to bloom like a flower in your landscaped garden
To see if I could fall in love with you.
I have wiped off my inheritance and hierarchy like the 6 pm sweat of a rickshaw puller
I had sadly fallen asleep at my grave instead of dying for you.
Gargee this is how I had lived with you.
Just like stray kids swimming underwater at Dhakuria lakes.
Just like a pervert begging for a life lying next to a couple nauseatingly making love at midnight.
I have four walls that have lost time and dignity.
Its worn out rabid existence is still so dear to me.
I have a dead tree carrying the memory of a long ago dead spring.
I have people calling me unforgiving names.
I have a bundle of your letters partly devoured by a team of right wing termites.
I have a curse that makes me that makes me unyielding.
I have that final possession that I have tonight put at stake at your alter
For that personal zero hour with you.
I didn’t want to tell this to you Gargee.
But my winters are slowly getting colder.
I have a covetous thirst that parches me every night that I have never felt before.
I have a rodent smeared darkness in my saline quarters.
I have a mind stained with sin and death.
For I have lost my memories at a cheap Dharmatalla bar.
I have the sound of accusing sirens when I pray or when I kill women.
I have two hands that like strangers rarely follow my commands.
Rarely do I feel that they are mine.
I have eyes that like invalids stare at their actions like a Venetian Crystal
Waiting for that zero hour with you.
Gargee would you call it living? Would you call it mortality?
Or is it my final game of chess
Between the dying and the dead?
I have phony page 3 smoke that glides through my scalded heart. Every Evening.
I have a banker’s blood that denies the existence to my heart.
I have sat crouched like a dog at... the reprobate feet of this world
To find the bitch in it.
Like a roach I have walked side by side with other roaches in this city,
Like a mosquito I have flown alongside other malignant mosquitoes of the parish.
In genuine darkness I have dived longingly inside a woman
Just to find that I never did have any living quarters there.
I have gone to placid theatres in my Coca Cola dreams
Dressed like that queer columnist.
I have blown away the scenes of deceit like a weak candle.
I have no animated camphor in my sweat Gargee
That would enrage me.
What would you call this Gargee?
I have tried to crucify myself in my insignificant bedroom
I have tried to understand the suffering of Christ.
I have wanted to bloom like a flower in your landscaped garden
To see if I could fall in love with you.
I have wiped off my inheritance and hierarchy like the 6 pm sweat of a rickshaw puller
I had sadly fallen asleep at my grave instead of dying for you.
Gargee this is how I had lived with you.
Just like stray kids swimming underwater at Dhakuria lakes.
Just like a pervert begging for a life lying next to a couple nauseatingly making love at midnight.
I have four walls that have lost time and dignity.
Its worn out rabid existence is still so dear to me.
I have a dead tree carrying the memory of a long ago dead spring.
I have people calling me unforgiving names.
I have a bundle of your letters partly devoured by a team of right wing termites.
I have a curse that makes me that makes me unyielding.
I have that final possession that I have tonight put at stake at your alter
For that personal zero hour with you.
I didn’t want to tell this to you Gargee.
But my winters are slowly getting colder.
I have a covetous thirst that parches me every night that I have never felt before.
I have a rodent smeared darkness in my saline quarters.
I have a mind stained with sin and death.
For I have lost my memories at a cheap Dharmatalla bar.
I have the sound of accusing sirens when I pray or when I kill women.
I have two hands that like strangers rarely follow my commands.
Rarely do I feel that they are mine.
I have eyes that like invalids stare at their actions like a Venetian Crystal
Waiting for that zero hour with you.
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