the poetry that matters

Arkava Das

Arkava Das is from Kolkata, India and has completed his post-graduate work in marketing management. Work has been accepted by Leaf Garden.


Stag night at Bluebeard's

from stripping at the slightest hint of diss
remember tribes on the tessera pouring jugs of flame
over silted figurine, soap with a lover’s surcease
swaying hands of flame, a sibilant welcome
of uphill bare murmurs from here worked into tallow
each room discovered along the hotel corridors 
marked for returns, meteoric growth of facilities
embarrassing all the old flames into burning
high bridges

cream legs tapping into
one room stacked high with metaphors.

bump in the night

the desire which is human
to stick it to
in reasoning

i  paid attention
a whisper, its load of words
a child’s taste in Indices
successful narration
a chain of text forecasted
her belly in long
sailing troikas
ventures, assimilates, whistles
loud and clear
into its ear,
menses in Scheherazade
a shell the sea returned.

words were in
a new dress
beauty mouth
peripheral flashes capture
this grant of equivalence

The day the roof of the world cracked admitting cosmic change

Once a ghost passed our kitchen, blue-eyed; I knew him from Wilde’s
fairy tale, but could make no head or tail, 25 fulsome trusses heaved
moving like the Ferris wheel from our old fairground inching its way all the same
foundations don’t work anymore; stylistically the long line should have been shelved
with my old porno stacks that no one was able to reach even back in the 80s and must
have been quite the spectacle once the ringmaster left the table to tend the lilacs. I had
Browning propped up against the toaster-

“Left to a man's choice,--we'll proceed a step,
Returning to our image, which I like.” (1)

Such a direct dig.

A fly stuck in my keyboard, burrowing into sounds on two legs and fucking metaphors
rubbing against the fly or am I asserting independence here to turn into a famous Flea this instant
looking up, voyeurism digested with chapatti and mutton chaap.

I floated out of context. Later I burnt him. Still later the visit to the bank to check his
condolences. (“The weight of this sad time we must obey”(2))
My old cabbie chacha from Albany.

Ref:     (1) Robert Browning- Bishop Blaugram’s Apology
             (2) King Lear


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