Schizophrenia, Let us sit over the tender clouds
Let us lay with absolute delight
Oh! I can’t sleep since eternity
Let us talk about atmosphere
before we sleep, On whose back
the velvet fair beds ride place to place
Schizophrenia, My hunky-dory darling
Let me touch your cheeks
Let me kiss your lovesome finger
Let us adore
Let us incite the bed
Let us be rain on the earth
shattering those cotton clouds
Schizophrenia, let us surge to the heart of ocean
Let us play with the tides
Under the heat of the sun
We will start our voyage again
Let us fly in the abyss
By wings of the wind-bird
Schizophrenia, let us perch a little
On the nest of cloud.
You stroked on my jetty
And by the phonation
All the sea-eagles shaked away
Winds painted with sun play
On the watery sate of the shore
When those water hiking on the land
Touches the deck
The beauty that grows with our dichotomy
Turns me into an eagle
Then I shiver, as you burn!
In between the discussion
The guy is sleeping with his back to the highway.
In the shadow of Banaba.
Wind coming from the marshy paddy-field, crows, mynas, writhing leaves
Are dancing, circling him.
Appears his red ‘gamcha’ will fly away any minute.
This is as tranquil life can get- SelimThariyani, busiest architect – said out from the pajero jeep, pointing fingers at the guy- rushing to catch the flight.
Inside the jeep, we went back to the discussion on Banaba.
Matured Banaba produces woods real sweet.
Tender but won’t bend.
Red but not ‘garjan’, it has fiber.
Thus its real proper to use as backing for the aluminum window frame, cheaper too.
Gamble with black and white lines
I was told to pick one of the three black lines. After thinking mammoth, I touched one of them. “Banishment! Banishment!” -They cry out. This kneel down life has been slumped under the chasm within.
I was told to pick one of the three white lines. So, I did. There, a solemn urge, was inside – to reach into the fairyland. A sound evokes- from far away. “The line did not point to anywhere. It has fallen unto the horizon of nowhere! We are sorry “
These events flow circling me as the centre with hollowness and aridity. I see those other black and white lines kissing each other, producing life. Only me, nursed by the wind of cotton clouds and barren sun, lay tireless, on the earthly sand!
Sometimes, my clock
Drives beyond the time
like dark, dark clouds
my ribs chime as the dial of the clock
my hands disappear!
Sometimes, my clock
Stands beneath time
Me, my clock
And this hide and seek
just lingers on!
Walk into the eerie; and sense who drills thy tomb with the wind-stone.
The propeller turns as a maze. On whose flesh
that maroon nightgown murmurs? Oh human-toy!
From the iron-mill euphoric airplanes ascend. Our wondrous
aerodromes howl as their wings rapture. We have learnt,
declivity is just a signal, to rise again. So the wind chimes,
Ionosphere keeps scribbling the waves on…
Fleur de vent blooms.
The nocturne is bending towards disease.
Dyscrasia fluxes beneath the scripture.
We never saw the lost era, Isis,
Never fathomed how
the knowledge avenue
lays immobile, moribund!
Oh! My monster of coins!
On your vault I store senescence,
Fame, suicide notes, etcetera.
Let clouds be burnt unto this desolation. Texts of wind.
Preach the book of eternity; and all its vague lingual.
Whose secret cyphers chime on wind! Oh papyrus!
Ignorance and vivacity of metropolis is engraved on
this witch-lantern. Deep within our conscience, reside
those solemn trees; they are worthy of depiction.
They know books of eternity are poised before the
occultist; Her third eye is blind. Her offering hands
prolong the code of cuneiform.
In this speedomaniac world, only gasoline outlasts.
And Presidents are pistolero!
So what do we have to loose but nous?
Who are those toying with the Globe?!
Buffoons or astrologers?
Whose name’s written on the shore of Galilei?
That truth is lurked beneath the iron, birds of ore…
I descend, slowly, within this obscure song. Hereth blooms tunes of haze, cadence.
Melody stirs; Orders falls; Stairs of ocean climbs into our step. Songs of despair croon on ether. Who disappear into eternity riding their floral chariots? They know departure is but a trick of wind. Yearnings are just murmurs of forest.
My order at Kenny Rogers Roasters
I’d go for original quarter chicken
No gush of coatings, skinned but slender,
With a bit of black cumin and sauce
On the sideline, two more,
May be green garden vegetables and mashed potatoes
And one gravy item, coleslaw is better
Though, scrimpy I figure.
Compared to Nandu’s
Price is not too much.
I bet they’d serve free muffins
After all, they just opened the place.
I’d like a coffee in this cold, do you folks have cappuccino?
That’s the order. Now, repeat it.
A piece of Japan in my mind…
As I work at Japan embassy
My days are spent in Japan, I return to BD at night
After coming back, I’d have betel, I don’t like sushi
And those Japanese restaurants are expensive too
I am a citizen of BD, but I can live in Japan also
I can write whatever I want about Japan, in Bengali
But Japanese can die without ever knowing that
An ash colored building
Bricks are bleeding in mild aqua
So many Doraemons inside it,
So many imaginations
Just they can’t cross the ethical boundary!
I presume your body is just like your clothing- colorful, lovely
I presume your heart is just like your body- full of peaks and nadirs, adventurous
I presume my imagination is just like your heart- even if not the same, still predictable, can be guessed
And stuffs I can’t guess I can probably ignore by saying they are ‘a bit different’
I am ‘a bit different’ than myself- Hell! I can even think that, with pleasure
Actually, we all are but the same machine, available in different shapes and colors
Al Imran Siddiqui
Never said my days are prosaic, never said they are resplendent. Army green days o’ mine!
Wind is caressing woodpecker’s nest. Sometimes I spread my arms, the notion of flying, a gentle
fascination. Name of one or two stars, one or two notes of the melody, I learnt today.
Incessant sky, the sun sets
My thoughts, ever wandering, are boundless
The lingerie falls down, touching those tender legs.
My bird-son learnt train journeys before sexuality, flight and inadvertence. Since we don’t live in coastal region – our pet names are not like trees or darts. The birdhouse where we live is basically a pile of pineleaves, soul of antelope and the head of a green tortoise. Sitting by thewindow while drawing trains in his sketchbook I ask my bird-son –tell me what resides on the window of train?
Outside – he answers
Trailer of Next Film
There are no pawnshops in our town. We trust in telepathy- just like our forefathers. It’s undeniable that- flight of stars adds all these background scores in our symphony…
However we don’t slit a single Thursday with our knives…