Wet Radio 2015

featured in the poetry forum June 27, 2017  :: 0 comments

Rain has no gender.
Why are tears then often assigned gender roles? We, who defy, cry immersing
ourselves in rivers, for life is but a long hallucination of memory and miseries we cull. Love
and loss are often one and the same- they eat our brain cells like ants swarming over
stale, decayed bread by the side of your garbage bin, early morning.
I have lost count of my lovers in imaginary strawberry fields, now purple in evenings without
crowing crows. Often, I have tried to lose my memory. Sometimes by falling
in love to seek pain- sometimes by disappearing a little every winter.
And escape came running down the green paddy fields, through a broken shortwave
radio whining in pain
Or, in guitar solos that illuminated my lamp lit, power-cut evenings. Other times, in lyrics
we gathered from the album covers.
Skipping lunch, biking for hours under the hot, arid sun, saving
to buy, to listen to the songs that remind you of your favourite lover, the punishments you
received at the school, and so on. May be, crying was just an excuse.
I was probably just longing for some goosebumps.

editors note:

It’s a retro radio wasteland. Tune in to your favorite triumphs. Turn off the tragedies. (We welcome Goirick to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Numb

featured in the poetry forum October 18, 2016  :: 1 comment

The dust I have acquired over the years
has hid my eyes from all that is before me
And I rust, disappear a little from your memory
Your vision
It has been a slow ride
And now the hills have turned their back
And I am not exactly sad
Or happy, I can’t see very well.

editors note:

No definition, no disappointment. – mh clay

Re-imagining Bop

featured in the poetry forum June 14, 2016  :: 0 comments

1. An amateur explains Bop Part I

it throws you up
cuts you off
flirts with you
off
the
scale

it can run through your bones
in slow motion
slide.

It can
hang
like planets in the sky,
fall off the cliffs
fingers
keys

Jumps, catches you by your feet
It can
feed
a fat fish,
Slither inside your throat.
The double
bass now gives you a headache
sometimes in poverty
sometimes in rhyme.
who knows,
a river might just set itself free?

2. An amateur explains Bop Part II

run, run, run
money
The city has taken off its clothes
and it rains, naked bodies
window panes
sliding doors
escalators
evaporates into a smoke

the black hands

iron chimneys

waves
a sky of filth. above
lonely planets
who get high.
chemicals leak intestines.

The gods are in town and they are
burning the stage

one by one
they come and disappear

at odd hours of the night.

3. Coltrane

A cold train in rain.
A breeze through your veins
An acid in your throat.

Is he angry?
or is he just searching
the distance,
two points of time?

Hills breaks into rivers
Cage morphs into a bird

Hunger, an old trick.
In slavery, our freedom.
Through notes we can’t fathom
And a rhyme we have chosen to forget

An ancient snake breathes out her disgust.

4. Jazz for the have-nots

It is heavy like a thali.
A bag of stones over your chest.
It bleeds through the age, enslaves you
But they drink it with white wine

A city grown old
Counts its rage

editors note:

No amateur imagination, this. Bop on! (Note: A thali is an Indian meal made up of a selection of various dishes.) – mh clay