hello whats this here in this rain
bent impress on my step piggies in my shed
pluck sundance and a yellowish prep
rain pretty on scarlet red
bring cowbells and blueberry breasts
and pink snot from bigboy chests
and where is chochu,where is she in the fancy dress

beautiful girl/nimble feet
come dance for me
my flute is silver
my tune is sweet
dance for me
do re me

i wrote a song for you
and the tune i set
is threaded finery
wear my bangles on your wrist
and dance to my
do re me

drink to my health
nevermind my frailty
turn round and round on slender hips
i'll recline on the bed and hum you my tune
sway gently to my sovereignty
do re me fa so la ti

rush to the river
heed my call
dont tell me you cant swim
my voice is golden
lose your life to my
do re me

think of a time
when we will cook out in the open
lay a table for a moveable feast
laugh loud and smile elegantly
and waste water
mix in it all the colours you can name
mix in it secretly
the blood of all the animals that are tame
cup your hands for a toast to thirst
and spill most of it on the grass
lets build a house without a roof
and sleep on the branches of trees
time passes by quickly
lets please walk on our knees

a story to be told
has an ending in the skies
you should listen to it with eyes closed
when a friend drew it in her mind
listening to it like somewhat blind
she saw the rings of Saturn
and thought she saw herself in lavender green
somewhere wading in a stream with bare thighs

when i first heard this story
i was in the mountains
listening to faint echoes of my voice in vast open spaces
i closed my eyes to see
a child in army uniform trapped inside a bubble
trying to prick it with a bent spear
and shying away from his reflection on its walls
scared of hurting its body double

masters over.i cant decide whether i should take the 6th as the symbolic closure of my uninterrupted career as a student or consider the last working day a couple of months back as the parabola of a convex trajectory
if it is going to be the last working day,then its just a faint tint/i dont remember much of that day/
on the other hand 6th was a ritualised acknowledgement of the end of college/drinking eating and suchlike/therefore probably it will remain longer as a memory/
before when ma stitched often,i was fascinated by the craft/the box which held the sewings was full of buttons/from shirts that were torn/those that were no longer there/the eyes of teddies/and the big buttons from their jackets/assorted buttons that ma would never chuck/shed put them in that box and find an appropriate use for it/
with its drop(accidentally)the box would scatter buttons all over the floor/under the bed/if it was a dark button,camouflaged by the darkness underneath the bed/or hidden behind the legs of the furniture/
on such occasions ma would fetch the broom and sweep all over the place/most buttons got recovered/
and sometimes there were unexpected finds too/10p coins 25p coins/a missing receipt/erasers that had been replaced/which therefore would now be saved and put aside till the present eraser was lost/
it was easier to think ma was just habitually thrifty but more than once i had seen her thoughtful after sweeping the floor for buttons/and shed already gathered like hundreds/after a small pause shed be onto the floor again,looking/her face stern with determination but if you noticed carefully with narrow eyes that suggested uncertainty/
i knew from the second time that even in that heap of buttons she remembers a one that she did not find among those that she picked up/the uncertainty was maybe because she wasnt sure if shed already used it/
shed find it though/and if she didnt find that button,shed find other buttons/and if she found no buttons shed find something else that would take her mind off buttons

life is not well;we're just suffering well
----23 yr old woman in the rohingya refugee camp,nayapara,bangladesh
existential crisis?
bah!humbug

why we must meet today

last night i slept on my feet
with a picture of florence with the lamp over my head
today i think i have eyes in my rib cage
i feel blindfolded by this vest
come meet me and tell me how i look,the mirrors too high for my chest

come with me
to the well on the hilltop
alone this day will go to waste
looking for polished stones
and somewhere discarded a jar of clay

manana.the spanish fruit
ripens on the guards chair by the carousel
it can be plucked by only those
that smoke 15 a day and stub the ends
in the same tray by the armchair

we'll have to put a photograph on the mantelpiece
before and after food your face
and next to yours mine
with a fixed gaze.you will with patience and some effort
remember me the time and place