Sunday, April 24, 2011

A Bunch of Volunteers
By Gabriel Ricard

He was the main event
that no one knew about
until long after he had gotten there.

One of those great criminals
you could spot in any group photo
from any decade where the rest
of the crowd sticks way out
like a thumb that’s gone black
from being sore for so long.

He came in around nine o’clock,
when it was just a few of us
having an argument over whether
or not we had already had an argument.

The old cigarette machine
was still charging three bucks more
than any other place in town.

Just for the experience.

The jukebox kept playing the only
classic top-ten countdown
that any of us would dare to face.

I don’t even know
what happened after that.

I know he ordered a beer,
and I know fifteen minutes later
I was wheezing from laughing more
right there than I had in the last ten years.

And I didn’t want it to stop.

Same for my old buddies.

A lot of whom
aren’t around anymore.

When an hour had gone by,
we had twenty or thirty people
around that I had never seen
before in my time there.

Which is also the same way
as saying in most of my life.

It was all on this guy.

The way he leaned against
the bar and faced everyone
who was interested in everything
he had to say and every story
that he felt like telling.

Three hours went by,
and he had five phone numbers.

Five hours went by,
and he had pushed last call
to two o’clock in the morning.

And all he did was tell
a lot of really interesting stories
while throwing out the kind
of one-liners that most of us
only think about when we’re alone.

I shook his hand when he left.

I swear to God I did.

The next night,
a bunch of us waited for him to come in.

A quiet buzzing of anticipation
that was even more impressive
because none of us were used to it.

But he never showed.

And then a cop friend of mine told me
that he was one of the guys
who died in that metallic genocide
of a car crash disaster in the Waste District.

I didn’t believe him then,
and I don’t believe him now.

And it’s not because I’m just
another one of those quiet sinners
who could have died twenty years ago
and not missed a whole lot of life
between then and now.

It’s my opinion
that guy like that either never dies
or died so long ago that he doesn’t
have to worry about it anymore.

As such,
I intend to continue
keeping an eye out for him.

He’s got this one story
that he never got around to finishing,
and it’s been kind of driving me nuts.

Matador of Shame
By Gabriel Ricard

Appreciation is all that springs to mind
when I think how tomorrow night
will be the last time we ever sit in that motel room
and wait for the ceiling to cave in.

I love the rumor that it’s money
someone slipped under a mattress with plans
to slip the whole thing into Heaven on Tuesday.

There’s three floors,
and we’ve been chewing on bad intentions
down on the first for six years.
So I guess if it’s true, then you could say
the desperate philanthropist above us is halfway there.

The other rumor involves an autopsy
on the heaviest extraterrestrial to come our way
since 1924, but I don’t believe that for a second.

Whatever it is we’re not sticking around to find out.
You’ve packed the car with homemade rotgut
and six out-of-date dresses for every possibility.
From a wedding that becomes essential
when the fire glues our back tires to the highway,
to a parole hearing destined to go down
at the gas station on Liberty Drive.

We’ve cleared our calendar for the next forty years
or sixty million miles,
whichever one comes first.

I’m banking on the former.
Your charm stands to outlive my OCD and inability
to leave well enough alone.

You might say I’m the greatest unintentional troublemaker
in the history of everything we’ve ever dragged into the light.

It’s also been set in stone between us
that you’re a better dancer, a better lover
and vastly superior sarcastic optimist,
when those cards are hiding your cold lips
instead of staying close to your chest.

You’re a whirlwind visible from every angle
and infuriating on every front.

You just laugh when I mention this
and tighten the handcuffs,
when there’s hundreds of people around us taking pictures
and making snide jokes about my gut.

You just grin and remind me
that we’ve almost saved up enough
to blow this town out of the puddle
and into the Pacific.

I just wonder how long it’s going to take
to find a town that will put up
with our kind of straightforward nonsense.

It might take forty-one years
or seventy million miles.

Language Barriers from Hell
By Gabriel Ricard

Fatigue is going to finish me off any day now.

When it does I’d like to just drop where I’m standing
and sleep with those apprehension guns blazing.
Instead of getting a cheap laugh
from tripping on those acid flashback stairs
that go on forever and break all those promises
to have a couch and a working water fountain at the top.

I’ve never really trusted physical comedy to begin with.
It’s a lot like falling in love with a beautiful woman
who works in a cafeteria and is compelled to feel blessed
every time she walks past something that halfway resembles a cross.

Don’t ask me where that image comes from.
It’s a long story. It’s even longer than the one that starts
with the punch line and ends with reaching for her hand
from the other side of the bed.

Only to find out there is no bed,
and I’m actually standing on the sidewalk of a street
with movie palaces and jewelry stores where the road into the mountains
used to be.

I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone,
but I can’t remember anything about them
except that it sure as hell isn’t someone who might save my soul for cheap.

As soon as I change into some nicer clothes I’ll tell you another one.

Talking is a lot easier
than juggling Coke bottles full of lightning
in order to prove a point.

I can’t do it anymore.
My back can’t take those homework assignments
from the creative writing class I wasn’t even invited to.

I’m breezing through three packs a day,
and I’ve been spending a lot more free time
at the diner that gives away a pitcher of beer
every hour you stay longer than the manager.

As a result I can’t really run away
from any get-togethers that turn ugly
and expect to stick around and be an innocent bystander
who can finish a sentence in spite of how blurry everything looks.

I can’t hack it these days.
Starting tomorrow or next Christmas
I’m only going to be risking life and limb
twenty or thirty times a week.

I’m going to be passionately cautious about falling in love
unless I feel warm hands on my face
when that exhaustion kicks in.

That’s all.
This not open to a polite screaming match.

You must look pretty
when you answer the telephone,
scrape bubblegum off the soles
of your pseudopunk Converse shoes
with razorblades readymade
for cutting cocaine
into powder, poof!

Does it make you forget
what he did with his hands
or does it widen the walls
of your soul with dynamite?

When your feet grow sore from
spinning the earth, take a seat
on the curbside that most resembles home,
The concrete scuffed with bitemarks,
the bitemarks that most resemble
your arms


I came downstairs this afternoon
and everybody had changed
into a skeleton

Ashes for their lashes
for their hair
for the folds and seams
of their skin

Veins hard-
in a nest around
their feet

My grandfather seated at the dining room
table of the classic American household
which is mostly placemats
on top of placemats
A wrinkled newspaper in his hands
A Yankee game on TV

My grandmother in a reclining chair
Bell-curve beneath an afghan
Her teeth in a glass jar, grinning

You can erase sixty-four years
of five a.m. Pinochle chatter,
of throwing the mouthy black girl's shoe
into the Passaic River, of fruitless night-jobs
and strange rashes on your legs
with a cabinet full of vitamin bottles
and one blazing television

My mother sits on the floor
surrounded by skyscrapers
of immaculately pressed
and folded laundry
rather than wedding invitations
or graveblankets pinned
with pink bows

Since we all want to stay the same
I anchor my neurosis
to the ash-colored carpet abandon
my broken toes
at the base of the couch

and hear faint radios and the feet
of children burning in the leaves

Death Tax

Placing your faith in sleep
That sleep will return you
to your room

Your bank book,
Your envelopes, cosmetics

Tomorrow you could end
Don't you know?

The mortician drains your blood
into an aluminum pan
Those who knew the way to your house,
how you liked your coffee,
loiter through corridors in dusty
black jackets, solemn dresses,
forced tears

Moon-faced, the way they'll be
when Death goes looking
for them

But will they know the way
to your grave, with flowers,
with love?

Brian Le Lay‏

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Would You Believe It; Some Women Actually Think I’m Charming.

Once, when I was a tight balled, chunky little boy,

I thought I would end up beside a busty, brunette queen of a Barbie toy.

We would hide away in my castle made of wooden pegs and soiled sheets,

And I would eat my weight in bight sized sugared treats.

Oh, the idea that love was indivisible.

A love that would make me entirely invisible.

Never mind how my taste reflects a disturbing oedipal complex.

It’s not awkward, darling; I swear I will get to the complements next.

If it Helps My Case, My Penis is Slightly Above Average.

You’ve got curves like a Greek goddess, you should like me.

I want to get used by you.

I’m just so full of hate, but busy waiting for you to incite me.

I want to get bruised by you.

This is the barrenness that haunts my every day.

A cavernous black stain that I can’t wash away.

“I’m Up for it if You Are, Handsome!”

I finally took a chance and found my balls,

After two weeks of watching the History Channel fornicate.

You said you would visit, but I knew you didn’t give a fuck.

So I built up my confidence and tried to put you in your place.

Your body lined the walls and your toes curled.

I felt compelled to leave a lasting expression of fervor on your face.

I should have known it was over when you howled his name.

But I still miss you even more than I did before.

If This Gets Published, Will I Get Laid More Often?

They say rebellion resonates in despair.

I really am envious of their ironic facial hair.

I am far too petrified to hold any of their monotonous cares.

So I just drink in dank bars where I can throw a hefty fit.

Sit on my throne of righteous indignation, and think about all the girls I might be able to get.

But if I am truly so enlightened, why’d I waste your time on it?

Nihilistic Swag

Shit, nothing makes sense.

Ignorance is bliss.

Starve, drink, smoke, fuck and flee.

In so little words that is pretty much me.

Old people only teach us to die.

Shrinks only tell us to cry.

The meaninglessness

Outweighs your plutocratic existence.


I’m not worth anything.

Yes, I admit it, I mean nothing.

Please, just stop all the flack.

I have accepted my place in the back.

This is clearly not the time and place to freak.

I awaken before the sun because I have to take a burning leak.

The walls shift as I contemplate the night before.

As the bar tabs rise I fuck my life up more and more.

Filled with remorse, as I puke my guts out on the floor.

Feeling empty, as I shit my heart out on the floor.

Robert D. Lyons
A New Pair of Shoes

It’s 9:30 and the ticking of clock was getting exponentially annoying with every movement of the dial. The grandfather clock in the middle of the dining room obviously did not care about how much I want time to stop. I want it all to stop. The time between when he was supposed to be home and the present is just gradually getting slower and slower. It seems that every time I look at the clock it has barely changed the position of its arms. In these three and a half hours I have gone completely through all the stages of grief.
First the denial: the thoughts that he must be stuck in traffic, he’ll be back any minute, and then the thought that he must be working late again for the well being of our family. During this stage I warmed up the lasagna three times and prepared another salad for his hard work. Then after about 45 minutes of this, the lasagna could not take anymore and neither could I. The stage of anger took over the denial, and I called him over half a dozen times just to hear his voice, which got increasingly annoying each time it told me to leave a message. So of course I did; left a few messages, and very angry ones. If not for Andrew, who was in his room doing homework, I would have liked to throw a couple of plates, preferably at the cause of my anger.
The anger stage is too exhausting, and within 30 minutes I was bargaining already. If he just calls right now I promise to God I will not throw the lasagna in his face and instead throw the salad (not to mention tomato base stains are hard to wash out). I then raised the stakes: if only he comes home now and begs on his knees I will not file for a divorce. I guess some of this might sound a little like blackmail and female manipulation, but I would like to assure you that this is just part of bargaining and negotiating with God on getting your husband home.
Then the depression part kicked in; I was kicking myself for making the mistake of not only getting married but more so for getting married to him. Then I was kicking myself for thinking that if not for him I would not have Andrew. I couldn’t think anymore and grabbed the bottle of wine I prepared for us to have after dinner. I still had not eaten when the acceptance stage kicked in. My head was lightly spinning and all was great. The thought of men and shoes being similar kicked in, and when one pair is broken, no much how much you love them, you need to either fix them or trade them in for a new pair.
I woke on the couch to the sound of things falling in the kitchen. I got up and walked to the kitchen to find him drunkenly searching through the fridge, while my lasagna that I left for him on the table was now in the garbage. It seems that even on our 5th year anniversary day his poker buddies were more important than me.
“I think I need a new pair of shoes,” I said out loud, startling him into dropping the plate of cheese and crackers on the floor.
“For Christ’s sake, you scared me half to death. You don’t have to wait all nigh to tell me that, just get yourself a new pair. You got the money,” he said angrily, gathering the cheese and crackers off the floor. The plate amazingly didn’t break, and it struck me that this ceramic plate was much tougher than it looked; even being fragile it still didn’t break after being dropped by this man whom I once knew.
“I think I will,” I said, which seemed to have startled him again.
“You will what?” he asked.
“Get myself a new pair.”

Anya Hommadova
Band Name: Pool Party

Interview with the leader of the band: Stinky Fingers

The interview took place at a hotel pool, half in a beach chair, half on the high dive in-between gainers, triple lindys, jack hammers, cannon balls, flying squirrels, arch angels, pencil dives, flips back and forth, cherry bombs, belly flops, and a few Olympic quality beauties. I held his vodka in my left hand, and he had placed his “stash” in my underwear. He had hair way past his shoulders and was wearing a neon pink leopard print Speedo.

So do you think only playing at actual “Pool Parties” limits your playing?

Stinky Finger: “Not at all! If you aren’t willing to come to a pool party every time, than you just don’t get it.” He did eight jumps at the end of the board, and then finally into a beautifully leg straight, arms tucked flip. “And fuck’em if they don’t get it.”

Some say your band, although the following is decent, is not actually talented, but draws crowds for other reasons. What do you think about that?

Stinky Fingers: “Well we rock, I’m definite on that. But what we lack in talent is made up for with strippers, and heroin clouds, sure.” Sprint into a gainer.

Okay. Do you find it at all ridiculous that your band has a dress code for your Pool Party concerts, either neon colors or naked?

Stinky Fingers: “NO.” Dope fiend languidly walked into a god inspired back dive, full twist, straight position. “If you come to a Pool Party concert in a black fucking T-shirt I will spit on you.”

What do you have to say about your tattoos?

Stinky Fingers: “Fuck it, who cares if they are shitty. They are tats none the less. I still get boned for them.”

When is your next album going to come out?

Stinky Fingers: “Well, I say never. I want to ride the last one out. But, the rest of the band wants to do stuff,” he grabbed his vodka away from me and slugged casually, “I am fucking sick of doing stuff. Everybody is doing stuff. I want to be different. I did something a while ago and I am still sick of it.” Casual, as always, long hand stand in a perfect hold, back triple summersault tuck, and the extremely straight minimal splash entry into the water.

A lot of people and fans our worried about your long time girlfriend, her being missing for six months now, and you seem unconcerned. Do you care to comment about that?

Stinky Fingers: “Dude, Whatever…” And then he sprinted into a really cool, and fun looking squirrel jump, he had a great hold, it seemed like it lasted ten seconds, his legs pulled behind his back. He was in fact gliding.

Everyone knows that you like to play different instruments; can we be expecting something other from you out of the next album?

Stinky Fingers: “Were gonna take a break on the interview for a while. Do me something titties and call the Concierge. Tell them Stinky Fingers is ready for his room service but I changed my mind on the order. Tell them, two blondes, and two brunettes, and any and all exotics. They will know what I’m talking about. I explained it to them in great detail earlier through a two hour conversation; the whole thing was kind of an ordeal. They just weren’t getting me.” He reached in my crotch and grabbed his “stash,” and went through it, “And tell them now.” He forced me to comply before we could continue the interview.

Is there a reason that all of your stage names our sexual? As in Stinky Fingers, Titty Bop, Anus Gun, Filatio Rose, and most notably Necrophilia Nick.

Stinky Fingers: Laid out in a beach chair, towel over his face except when drinking. “Yeah, there is a reason.”

Do you care to elaborate?

Stinky Fingers: “Well, we each like to attract a certain type of female,” eating out of his “stash” like it was a bag of M&M’s.

Doesn’t Anus Gun get sick of wearing only a towel around his waist for every show?

Stinky Fingers: “No.”

I mean the towel gets ripped off of him every show by some girl in a neon bathing suit.

Stinky fingers: “That’s kinda his point man. I wish I had thought of that one.”

What is the truth, about the dead and sodomized bluefin tuna found in the closet of your smashed up hotel room?

Stinky Fingers: “Who cares about the truth? I say it was Necrophilia Nick. See, we had a Pool Party show, and it was a salt water pool, so we thought we would make it a special show, you know, like, deep, and spiritual. Yeah? So, Titty Bop drum sticks thought it would be cool to bring in some wild animals. Yeah? Weird story short, Necrophilia Nick rape mouth job’ed one on my balcony.”

Mouth Job’ed a bluefin tuna?

Stinky Fingers: “Yeah. But, really, it wasn’t that weird. There was much weirder stuff going on in the room, than on the balcony. And besides, the bathroom, people barely could look inside without puking in there. So I mean it was relevant at the time. You see? Yeah?”

And, why did you jump from the third story window into a bush in order to try and get away?

Stinky Fingers: “See it was all relevant. All three hundred of us were trying to get away. It wasn’t even so important, it was more of a mood. Everyone got into it.” He shook his hair over one shoulder and began to pet it.

At this point in the interview, the drugs he had spiked my drink with (without my knowledge) had taken complete control of me, and I was forced to abandon the rest of the interview.

* * * * *

Yes, of Course Eddy Money Could Save The City of Lake Forest, But do we Have The Money to Pay Him to do it

Yes, in short, we do. However another but, but will we give it up? Sudden boredom is a real problem. There is no reason this town can not pay to have Eddie Money sleep at Gorton Community center every night, hand cuffed in the basement to play a show. Why not? It would be great. The last time he played Lake Forest I have not seen so many imposter mullets the next day on “cool” dads, dark sunglasses on wives, sheets in the washer, pants to the cleaners, deleted email addresses, ignored phone calls, plastic surgeries, called bars for missing credit cards, bloody Mary’s, and turned over mattresses. Eddy Money kicked this city in the balls. I went back to high school that night, literally, I tore down the goal post at Lindenmeyer field and smoked menthols till a girl noticed how many I had and I got laid on the fifty. My uncle has not worn a shirt since he picked me up in my tight letterman jacket at dawn and I puked on his Hawaiian shirt. My date never did get a ride home because the D.U.I took so long with all the screaming involved. “Do you know who the clitoris I am? I’m Eddie Fucking Moneys manager, that’s who… You Fucking Ant,” my uncle wobbled out a ton of good yarns while I fingered my date again. “Yeah, Eddie, Fucking, Money, Manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Money seems to have a lot of managers tonight.”
A friend of mine, Brian, even said he went down to the beach to crank some Eddie after the show, and ended up skinny dipping with some chicks from the college because he said he was a roadie. After blow jobs in the woods and shit, he said he got fresh and through a glass of beer in her face, and says it was the best night ever in this town. You can not find a guys bedroom in this town with out a Jesse Money poster above the bed, and an Eddie on the door.
I guess the police station was the place to be. All the best partiers in town were there, Bill Donlon in a cowboy hat, a straight jacket on Chip Whiteside, a muzzle latched to the jaws of Sheila Dennet. It was a blow out blast.
Reportedly, Eddie Money blew a blizzard of cocaine off of moms. So, you know they had fun. Its just what this town needed, and needs again. Lets put Eddie on call in our wine cellars. All we would have to get him is cool shirts, a hair stylist, and vodka-sea-breezes. That’s all he seems to require as a human. Maybe the occasional tambourine he breaks. Anyways, its my suggestion to the town, that we lock up Eddie Money at the Gorton Community center for our daily use. Even when he’s not scheduled to play, people could go look at him or drink beers all day with him. Thank you.

* * * * *

The Maroon Mustache

A romance language classic by: Captain S.

His Cadillac was maroon colored, interior and exterior. And so was his mustache. He drove from gas station to gas station across America to eat poorly, show off his wheels and face, and fuck the women America had to offer. He said gas stations were the cheapest places to look rich.
The Maroon Mustache was somewhere just inside of Wisconsin, near Kenosha. He pulled his maroon wheels into a white gas station with signs for cider and cold beer. He always parked blocking the front doors to the gas station. His first step was to ask for the bathroom key, for two reasons. One, to have it in case a woman needed it, and two, to have a room to bring a woman to.
A red head of no great appeal came in and was eyeing cigarette prices. The Maroon Mustache came right in behind her, sniffed her back, and then yelled at the gas attendant while pointing his gold watch to the pumps, “Are those pumps topped off, Damn it. They need to be. Do you understand? My god you must know absolutely nothing about gasoline, oil, and whiskey.” The attendant and the red head looked at him incredulously. He continued with pride, and now louder that he was sure he had an audience, “Make sure the gas pumps are topped off. And the premium gasoline, my god the premium, get some better premium gasoline. How many times must I tell you.” He gave a disbelieving face to the red head while pointing at the attendant. Then the Maroon Mustache put his arm around her back and led her outside, “How can I help you today, Miss? Never mind the carton of cigs, they are on me today. Sorry for the miss communication with the premium gasoline today,” he sighed, “you never know who you are hiring anymore.” He opened her car door and let her in and gently shut the door. The Maroon Mustache smiled at her like bull horns, “Say, I will be playing darts over at the closest bar to here tonight around 9:30 if you would like?”
Her chest perked up, “Its called the Meat Rack, I’ll be there at ten.”
She drove off, and the Maroon Mustache went back inside and bought some Red Man and a case of cold beer to stake out in the car. He would still hang on to the bathroom key, gas stations are open forever.

* * * * *

The Maroon mustache sat perched on top of his Cadillac and ate slim jims two at a time. His shirt was off, and as it turned out, his chest hair was a thick carpet mat of maroon fur. The New Mexico sun made his eyes squint like a lynx with mighty whiskers. The squinted eyes were just staring at the doors to the Mobil. Every time a man would come out he would wisp, “Finger-banging, ass-hole, son-of-a-dick,” and suck on some jerky juice, “Fuck.”
When a woman came out, he would swallow the two chunks of Slim-Jim whole, and smile his maroon bull horns straight over to her, wiping his jerky hands off on his mat. And he would say, “Listen,” and stare at her for a open ended three minutes, his whiskers in the wind just smiling like a mad dandy. “I think I am over this town. You might want to be to. The next town over is suppose to have the cheapest motel deals in the region. The amenities are 6*.” The maroon mustache grabbed her by the arm and brought her right up to the horns, “This here bristling ass whip under my nose isn’t just going to be talking all day, Mam.”
Her knees had become week, subtly shuttering in awe, “Put me in the car and take me with you, I cant walk, sir.”
“I would be delighted to, mam. I will just be getting some vodka for you from the Mobil, and I like to chew tobacco over blow jobs and news paper readings. Don’t mind giving me a minute?”
He let her arm go, and she collapsed to the floor panting, “Hwa, Hwa, Hwa,” like a butchers dog, and grabbing her groin rolling on the floor in a puddle of gasoline, “Lord, praise be to the light,” she looked to the sky.
The maroon mustache took his hunting knife out of its sheath and went inside to get the vodka, condoms, news papers, Slim-Jims, and chewing tobacco. He had only actually stabbed a few people, he usually just yelled really loud and slapped people around with the side of the blade, while he called himself, “The Maroon Comanche Mother Fucking Psycho.” He would always brag about how many pussy’s he had scalped, Forty-five under age balled vaginas, and three-hundred Mexican vaginas, enough Russians to make a suit out of, a winter hat and mittens from Brazilians, a fur top hat of Europeans, and a quilt of moms. When he left a gas station, he always peeled out and left tire marks, and honked and waved good-bye.

* * * * *

He sucked on a Slim-Jim like it was a cigar and his hands wrested in his jean pockets. The shirt had been popped off again. After the maroon mustache had fought three dogs in the ally he was hungry and kicked open the door to the gas station, and pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant. “Give me one of those fancy hot dogs from the rack, along with the best mustard you got on the shelf, and a frozen fifth of vodka,” he shook the beef stick in the attendants face.
“No frozen vodka.”
The maroon mustaches face smudged, “Put it on ice, or in a snow cone moron.”
“Me no waitress.”
“You are not befit to be a gas station attendant.”
The attendants hands went up along his sides, “I don’t get?”
He chucked the Slim-Jim at his face, but it hit his shoulder, “Then make it warm, or put it in heavy cream, with kahlua, and stir it up, and hand it to me.”
“No. I don’t get?”
The maroon mustache took the attendant by the ears and bashed his head into the register, climbed over the counter and smashed every bottle of vodka but one over the back of the attendant. Twenty-two bottles of vodka. The maroon mustache wandered outside to wait for chicks, and put the hot dog to his maroon horns. He shined majestically in the sunlight.

* * * * *

Bio: Captain Shipwreck writes in speech patterns that use the inhaling and exhaling of breath to induce third eye visions. His inspiration for the work comes from adoring jerks, beach landscapes, and the taste of premium rum. He is currently rumored lost at sea along the equator.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Hello ,

I am poet from India. Here is my poem for consideration.

Thank you for your time.


Subhankar Das

Animal Farm 3

As if she will pour the darkness out of her palm
This is the way of birth, the dawn breaks
The mad flight of stairs follow
To take away the alien stone from my face
The night ends folding lights
The wind is stripping off the skins of the walls
Soon, the lights from unknown planets
Will descend to swipe away the stony darkness
This intense fear grips me if I do not remove those
Why I do not know the magic incantation
Let the energies be collected to stifle the darkness
Let my hands get smeared with blood and froth
Tonight the rains slashed its way through the window
So many nights in search for those hands
Still I stand entangled in the night

Bio: Subhankar Das is a writer, publisher and film producer living in
Kolkata, India. He has publishd fourteen collections of poetry in
Bangla though his most recent collection The Streets, the Bubbles of
Grass, is published in English by his arts collective, Graffiti
Kolkata. He has translated Allen Ginsberg’s Howl into Bangla and is
the editor of the stark electric space..., an anthology of
international experimental writing. He has produced six short films
and owns a bookstore.

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...