postcolonial poetry

Emission of Gas

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It disintegrated beyond recovery
And we are strangers now
Once again, as we were when we met:
Nursing ourselves for another day in life,
Scuttling among petty kicks we regret.

Ironing a shirt, lengthwise — arms first –,
parting the hair there where it is set
To be parted — now well creased — that even the
Turbulence of sex would not unsettle that perpetual creasing.
Rinse. Wash. Flush the toilet.

Look at my stride as I walk:
It is even, it is smooth, it is virile
Even while the edges cut against my skin.
I greet your face as you face to greet me
And casually say ‘how?’, concerned about my suffering.

I stare at the buttonless man, the big-bummed vehicle,
The emission of gas — think how
The glaciers trickle to dust. The gregarious build
Of the dangling many-fold woman and the many firm eyes
That to follow her must.

They follow their dreams — I follow my shadow
As it precedes me, as the sun falls on my back,
Urging me on. Pushing me down the road
And the screen only has a missed call that I miss
From a pathetic piece of flesh with whom I am bored.

Yulia South Bridge


The Hider and His Friend

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Gets in a friend from five-to-ten years ago,
With hanging stuff, and a new thick golden ring.
An obliging streak makes part her hair glow
And with the barest of minimum space there could be,
Next to where I am standing, in this — the rarest of moments — she,
Half covered by her man: a preoccupied crashland.

Yes — It’s got to be her, I mentally think,
And as, with their backs to me, there
As they speak where they stand,
I hold on to the bar straight-lined with the roof
And with my shoulder shield my head, so I’d leave no proof
Even if she is to turn my way. Prevention above cure is here to stay.

The incessant talk tells me my guess
Is spot on; and as a glance I steal
I see that her toes are as hers to be real:
Save me, then Lord Below, from having small talk to make
To the possessor of flashy hair and flocks
Of fussy admirers of yore: a phenomenon. A friend. A fake.



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So, like, glad and honoured to write it in here that the follow up to my Pesticides for ma Pants, a fitting tribute in verse for 2010 AD, Busted Intellectual is now being run through print.

The work will be technically available by the end of October. No formal release as such till later on; but, we bank more on informality.

Busted Intellectual is the story versified of this island from May 2009 to June 2010.

busted intellectual