Newsbreak – Summer V

The burden of truth weighs heavier on coloured girls

Streaking browns and blacks with reds and greys;

Soot rises from houses as false calls of sanctuary

make us dizzy from dehydration

Give us thirst and bathe us in ash

 

Intoxicating and inundating

A stranglehold of anxiety, pinning our arms to our sides

Callouses of deep brown reds and colours that make a garish nationalism

Our pain is two wicks pierced into wax; the flame a balancing act

A draft – a conscription to arms

and the light flickers out

 

Early morning podcasts, trying to stay awake

Tubes through our throats feeding us

hearts racing like bicycles, chasing a soundless void

Renegades and arresting gazes are

hiding how much I truly know

Devouring information like a stomach twisted in hunger, an angry gut of emptiness

Repeating the same information, an hour later; in someone else’s commanding voice it sounds like a song I once knew the lyrics to

 

When the burden is greater on coloured girls; our cries are louder too

honeydew

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Disapproval – Summer IV

If I believed in love, I would write about it

Every calamity needs a witness, every sorrow needs a poet.

What bigger loss then is there than a longing heart?

If I believed in love – and happiness from childish love – I would write about it

Instead I read it

Don’t talk to me about love

If I believed in your kind of love, I would never write

I would drown

Choking on air thicker than honey.

How do you bare such a loss of your senses?

I want to be gossamer and light. But the ideal is a

thick

suffocating

molasses.

You are bound to ideals that are endless and pointless.

Why write love stories that make me laugh?

If love was truly this way my brain would have been stitched into my ribcage

My mind a servent to the world. To the ground. To everything you wish to ascribe to your love.

Love is a responsibility. Stop making it less of a burden.

honeydew

Foreigner – Summer V

My country is not your foreign policy

My country is not your foreign policy

My country is not foreign.

My country is a system of terrible politics

It is unfollowed traffic laws and rooftop cricket.

It is 3am ice cream runs and potholes.

It is fields and mountains and prayer calls from masjid speakers.

It is narcicism and true beauty.

It is broken bottles and a embroidered patchwork.

It is refuge and escape.

It is dreams and a curse.

It is haphazard borders and Western imperialism.

It is single families and tribes.

It is regionalism and nationalism.

It is a conundrum I am not equipped to solve. As if I have any idea of what I left behind.

My country is not your foreign policy.

But it’s becoming foreign to me.

Early – Summer iii

Mouths are a barrier to voice and glasses cloud my vision

Is what I see really happening? I can only feel history when it is half blurry, my eyes free to take in air.

When cold water hits my back I feel punched, and the air doesn’t fill me in fast enough

My body is a glacier, it shifts the Earth. I carve hills and mountains flat, form ponds and river beds. Each year I should grow, but lately I’ve been retreating.

I am hungry, trapped in a room with my own thoughts, awaiting time to sleep, and then delaying it – this is my routine.

I can break habits but it would break my spirit. I can be ever so slightly late to work.

Wear amber and bezoirs as jewellery, entrapped by gold and ribbons of orange. It will always be waste disguised as excess. But so am I, so why can’t they be treasured too?

I am awake for too long. If I sleep for 6 hours after noon but only 2 past midnight, which one is the nap and which is the true sleep?

This is what I think about when its early.

honeydew

Discourse – Summer ii

Darling

Is this patronizing?

I say this on the flip-side, riptide, got me on the left side

why don’t you look alive, down a size, watch my tongue try to pick a side

When I

Code my words to get your approval; I-

count to ten don’t time a removal of-

My sanity, humanity, hard crimes, in time

just for speaking out

but your conversation

and hesitation

is to get the last word.

I know why you’ve come to talk to me

You just want the stamp of a POC

So you can say what you really mean

As if you didn’t know what is for real

I can’t argue for target practice

I can’t argue for spitting cactus

it burns on the tongue like I deserve this

I try hard not to internalize this

(which side hurts the least?)

For real now:

I know that this isn’t the discourse you want

no

I know this isn’t the discourse you want

no

I know this isn’t the discourse you want

no

I know you want me to come to a middle ground

but

you keep pulling the rug beneath me

(I have to code words to make you comfortable even though the basis of your idea is: You are fundamentally more animal than human to me)

WE HAD THESE CONVERSATIONS TWO FIFTY YEARS AGO. WE’VE MOVED ON.

You are stuck, unstuck, never able to come to terms with the fact that I am not here to make your life easier and your mind less guilty. These veins carry my blood, not yours. So my heart will not bleed for you.

Get it together

honeydew

 

(Hello everyone! It’s been so long! I apologize for the not-so-activeness of this blog. Exams hit me in the face, and then I started a summer job as a research assistant on campus. I will have much more time on my own to write and create art so stay tuned!!!)

Belle – Summer i

Walking to work takes two different paths

forming loops of concrete and

rushing cars,

steely death not warranting a high white sun

a coat that still does not fit

wind just chilly enough to pull me in

but tea-lined walks are an anticipation of

cherry blossoms soon to blossom.

When charmed houses with

lucky jewels brush their wings

and petals rain over sidewalks

I can pretend they are my bedside orchids

and press them in my Chemistry textbook

I anticipate them

like I am by convention

and even, my own hour of bloom

Do wilted blossoms know they have passed

la belle époque

or instead wait to fall an immeasurable distance?

I wait with them

honeydew

Water – NaPoWriMo Day 18

Water comes in forms

The sky

A glass

Pipes

Forming blood, building ladders in your sides

Water is forgotten and nagging, once remembered too late; relentless

Water is deciding to shower in the morning, Fridays.

Thinking, “Am I hungry or just thirsty?”

Both.

Water is cold and dangerous roads, it’s falling on the sidewalk

It’s wonder and clouds, snowflakes.

It is ominous, inescapable.

Water is not life because if it were it wouldn’t also be death

Dissolved, disappearing, vast

Water is losing its meaning, raise the temperature a bit

If I say water enough it loses its meaning: raise the temperature a bit

honeydew

Art in Motion – NaPoWriMo Day 17

Aha! I am back! It just so happens that what I thought would happen did happen! I got swamped in finals and missed a couple days. (Oops) Oh well, here’s to the bumps in the road!

Being late is second nature

Clocks are meaningless when I am a much more convincing timekeeper

Reliable?

No

I dream of excuses before the blinking lights of

7:30/10:30 tell me what I already know

This time there was a train crossing

next time it might a traffic jam

I’ll even tell you nothing at all.

The blank air of bullet shots make

thunder clouds of my absence

Rivers of emerald green lights might have distracted me,

this is more beautiful to believe:

A dance of clouds or hummingbirds whisked me away from my path,

A bonfire of songs and fireflies entranced me in their call

I couldn’t leave the paradise I found

behind this waterfall,

the empty sounds of waiting can be filled with blood through my ears and the clashing of things forgotten on my night stand

Deprived of movement and chaos: What art is made in peace?

These mismatched socks are a fashion statement

Heavy breathing and speed walking, Is that not a dance itself?

Waves of anger and relief,

what art is made in peace?

honeydew

Four hundred and one – NaPoWriMi Day 7

The highway is a pipeline of

narrow times and swollen eyes

that

form canals through valleys and bends in kilometers wide

1 am cars and red stars, and golden jewels hidden in a tapestry of black

Waiting for lives,

making space for 5

Maybe there’s space for lonely souls at ends of roads

And rest.

Conversations through angry horns and open doors and misinterpretation

Traffic jams make music bands and silent reflections dance

stuck only with myself

till the end of this line

honeydew

Literary devices – NaNoWriMo Day 6

Cool energy throwing paint that makes driving home un-

Comfortable, with devilish ears and candied walks on

Treasure islands making waves for pathways and driveways

Obscurity and nonsense words, death defying spells and rhapsodies.

These are the words that introduce and twine their songs through empty energies and purposefully bad grammer.

Listening to late night air floating through street-

lights, distance in scary eyes

Scream with purpose to ward off evil

Let me sleep at night

Shouting is a form of communication so fashion this syllabus into evidence of the novels I’ve written

Create a blanket over high water to walk while the surface tension is still high

Science is art made accessible only thorough gondola and conquest and I ride through the waves as a

Method

Marry your starlets to constellations who may discover within them a universe to represent and take over their language

Create sonnets of English men and make their words nearly religious, but fall for their tropes anyways

You are a maiden borne of the wind anyways.

Contribute to the message you condemn if only to delegitimize it and form an emerging state

sailboat that has direction in eastern seas but waters horizons withdraw from painted arrows,

Create chiaroscuro in the Dark ages- you’ll need the light of the Islamic world. Make sure every map is drawn wrong

Take Romeo’s poison as valour and nothing else.

Politics are easier as a poisonous
s chalice and come from the Dark

H