Wednesday, August 18, 2010


Home is where we try to get Government jobs

The erstwhile poet sat on a fan plane
The hairy arm beside that of a Mallu, male
Vomit surfaces
While I was away I was safe, don't know what white or black arms could do to my sternum
But this blob of flesh beside me could rip and pour his filth into me
I know, I have lain beneath him.

Home is where you burn your own bed.

No one changes sheets or makes beds,
No invisible fair maid-en immigrant,
I've brought new unrequiteds home.
The white man knows how to sucker punch your soul
"Sympathetic character".

Home is not stress timed language

Here what you write is what you speak
This is an agglutinated tongue, run on words that spell
Love in fearless fury, not hiding behind metaphors inane
Where you don't let someone within your enclosures
If you don't mean it,
Where aunts four feet tall will smell your hair
And that's the kiss of ancestry
And they cry because they spot the cynical brother,late
In your niece's smile
And see the rotting rope that would hold her breath
For the last time
But that's years from now.
Where my last surviving blood has nightmares
Every dawn when his four-year-old sun shines and reminds
Him of the lil sis outside, drenched,in rain, always.

Home is where honour kills.
And breaks your womb with doors thrown open
Windows shut
Where push is powerless,
Where Sundays mean exams public,
crunching numbers, difference between
interests compound and simple for a sum
after two years, at the same rate,
I get lost in the fourth root of pi.
And never made it as a lefty.

Home is where I am not a poet.


It is the natural law

It will happen

Girls will be married off

Because they have to naturally marry.


When he stepped in


poltergeists of shouldn't haves tore my muslin membranes of discretion.

Meant walking away,

closing the door click shut, quiet

the little trap door of vermilion skin slipping

slithering, the being inside

can't make up her mind.

What women want is simple

acknowledgement of hysteria as legit.

Because paranoia is when

the drop of water, sliding crystal ball of twinkle lights and sparkling clear

on smooth brown skin

feels like the circuitous invasion of snails.

They leave indelible tracks that cannot be bleached sterile.

You see

Everything slips

My hand doesn't write as fast as my naturally female emotional thoughts

when my pencil loses the second syllable.

This is my desire for erasability

Not the wash-offability of ink

black, dark

the fake glee of royal blue

the little glue

of a smile that keeps humanity together.

When he slipped in yesterday

I pretended like I wanted nipple-twisting

nickel ringing

Cracking, uncraving open fissures ka ching!

The swirl in the toilet bowl is not his

this thing I try so had to retrieve and eject

the thing naturally racing to break the eggshell

tadpoles swimming in yolk red.

But women

don't ejaculate.