Papparazi And Poetry | Chandril Chattopadhyay

Their eyes have a mixed metaphor of things I wrote and rewrote in my notebook
Because I could not feel that I was warm for a season

I run behind the gaps of tightly crossed alcoholics
In a vanity fair
While clicking photographs of not-so-happening-women-in-animal-prints
Their bodies hung from the shadows behind the table of mahogany
Because I could not release myself from the cloud of Mayakovskyian trousers
And because they felt, I was not warm for a season

My eyes have smoothened from the splitting citric he squeezed from the grossly peeled lemon.
Soi-disant playboy or a ninja over floral kimonos hisses the storm from Kabul to Baluschistan
In the computer graphics classes.
I write and write overdrawing my nasty lips
From the Jacuzzi of a far away caravan
I was painted  in red Mary
And gasped  eloquent tete-a-tete from a titillating confusion:
When the garnished carnations over oriental dinners
Brought unknown women to my gourmet bedroom
Okay let us reframe the thirst from the jeering holes in my back
Or let me edit the lines down  with my warm hands in the notebook:
I ate gourmet dinner in presence of an oriental women
Who warmed the hole in my  back by sleeping in my bedroom.

I try to recollect the beauty from Saki’s dark anacondas
Or Flaubert’s frivolent madam engaged in monosyllabic grunts with Lawrence’s lady
Amused me as I engaged myself in voyeurism

The downwardcablesstruckintomyconsciousness by e m p t y i n g into s p a c e s
Which my physics book could not explain as it struck with gravity with ‘g’ skewing my un-holi-ness
As I steroid my arms before working out the deltoids
The notebook blew down to the last page
Tracing the reps and sets and squats and curls and snarls and dips and the  motionless frizzes
The last page had your note in virgin cursives
Where you wrote down your name
Beside mine
And struck the common letters off
And wrote them again
And struck them again
And made percentages of love
Only to blowmyradioheadintorudimental_kinks_of_ruggedness
By existing and persisting in between my sleeves and in Chinua_Achebe_black_burnt_coloured_divorce_papers

My moksha lies in proclaiming that I am a huge fan of maya_black_phenomenal_angelou

Indian Review | Literature and Poetry | Author

Chandril Chattopadhyay