Listen, The two of us are from a bizarre forestFull of bizarre treesThat all grew from bizarre seeds. Birch pollen that decidedThere was more to life than birch trees,Maybe fell in love With the curves in Maple leaves.See, these seeds didn’t mind being bizarreBecause bizarre just looks like you and
Picture this: Shah Rukh Khan, Bollywood superstar extraordinaire, on a sand dune and Deepika Padukone in this bomb-ass flowy dress she’s there too, and there’s a citar and a tabla and a flute and Shreya Goshal is singing in the back, but it’s Deepika’s lips that move. And just a
We are poets. Our margins have curves. We pick thorns out of words and make petals out of letters. We stitch broken hymns, and hers, and thems together with verse.
Do trimmer blades Understand “patches?” Do hairs scream As they are beheaded? Or do they sing to the Buzz of these steel bees? Do fingers listen To the mane’s choir? Will this choir bless your fingers With their voices at all? Do you wish there were fewer Voices, fewer ensembles?
Was a man who follows trails of vapor whispers, interprets these ghostly compasses, reads smoke and mirrors, prefers the pitter-patter of blurry rain, sways to the rhythm of stumbling drums, rubs prescription lamps, wishes upon Upjohn genies to forget; is a man who remembers only blotted smiles in swaths of
There are men who wield God-given five-digit weapons, with unparalleled accuracy. Hip-fired hollow-points or Full-metal iron-sight finger-fired points. The shots always land. They rain blame in place of bullets, phantom pains in armor-piercing guilt, Magazines in the wrists, Foregrips in the elbows, Friend or foe, we are all painted in