Kabir Deb (Voices Within 2023)

Kabir Deb is an author cum poet based in Karimganj, Assam. He works in Punjab National Bank and has completed his Masters in Life Sciences from Assam University and is presently pursuing his MCW from Oxford University, London. He is the recipient of Social Journalism Award, 2017; Reuel International Award for Best Upcoming poet, 2019; and Nissim International Award, 2021 for Excellence in Literature for his book ‘Irrfan: His Life, Philosophy and Shades’. He runs a mental health library named ‘The Pandora’s box to a Society called Happiness’ in Barak Valley.

 

 

A Big Foot!

 

On seven days - seven long days tucked

to seven long nights I do seven

awkward things, to break

comfort - to sprinkle my worthy

opponents on people I love - to love one

has to hate - to hate one has to

see something awkward,

things that cannot be cherished

unless we're high - people clean our

shit by getting drunk; we should

break free because when

the night is empty - days are boring

and our heart weeps; all we do is clean,

it can be the fallen leaves beside

our home; pieces of advice

strapped to the shattered heart -

on Sundays I sit and blink - rise and

think - weep and wink - flush memories

in the sink; everyone consoles

doors are knocked - I wank

the shit in my heart - and I consume

the moon just to not get drunk

because I've to wake up to

women hugging men - bosses bitching

about the market - and uncles

waiting for a downfall - it is when

their ghosts find a happy tummy buffet.

.

.

.

Mondays are toxic unless they're asked

to be like a woman - a busy nice

lady with shining stilettos,

I wake up to her and I hear a cry,

trapped inside a laugh - a man trying

hard to be a woman just to wail - inners

hanging - memory of a tired banging

- weekends can be remembered

easily; some have cheesy meetings -

others just end their night liking

the rhyming of a night with fight,

many fights - one can only remember

one because that's how it works - a film

ends with a death or a kiss - just one

incident - I walk on the streets

seeing everyone with a fallen chin,

a few have a smile stuck like a sad time

that has nowhere to go - I leave

my windows open - sprinkle soda

on the plants & work hard on my private

parts - a weird thing keeps me on -

a turn on also comes out well

and I feel the day might have a life

- even if it doesn't I'd have a discomfort

to share with a comfortable paper

earning me - I could sit naked

before him no matter how corrupt

he becomes - he would know a man

who's ready to be a mistress of a mister.

.

.

.

I spank the pillow and draw a nebula with

my fingers - the next three days

I work on not feeling even a

single jet lag -- a new God is worshipped

everyday; sometimes I frighten

myself with a laugh out of nothing;

I pick blueberries, caress a new buttock

and swallow the innocence which

takes birth everyday in a new

form - a divine works on a pervert -

a pervert stalks the divine playing a lore

inside everyone - I then sell enough

of me to be called a paramour;

on days I sell my words; on nights

I unbutton myself - "take whatever

you want to" - caring is a business a few

people do like a naive capitalist -

others run their machine, buy a piece

of me just to ensure a peaceful sleep on

my corpse that falls off me -- it is the

weekend I wait for - any Saturday

isn't a normal day; the process

of cleaning memory starts

from a dancing bar to a laughing

club - I execute it strangely - usually

I wear a tuxedo to bring sanity - strange

things happen when we're too sane,

I wear shorts and raise a toast

for everyone who live the life of the

weirdest beings - just to not be lifeless,

there's no court in heaven, a fire

does burn in hell - I choose

to get burnt like a piece of paper,

that is how we feel less shitty - everyday.

 

Good And Bad Days!

 

I keep my bad days in the front pocket,

constantly touching, feeling them,

the bruises appear in here,

and over the creases, sometimes

they stink, scaring every possible man

around me, in other times infinite

possibilities draw me to sleep,

I sleep like death, I wake up to a ripped

edge, blood drips, a blood moon,

I touch every bit of it, I moan

through my pain, the pocket soaks like

a woman, a struggle narrates its

story, a story it is of struggle,

the bad days menstruate, it's the

only time I'm not told by me that I am a

man, I bathe my pain off, I dry my

body with the sky, sun sets on

my waist, my front has a night,

owls hoot, wolves come out, it is

when I touch every bit of me, bad days

thrive beyond a pocket, it creeps,

it pulls, it draws the divine on

the hands of the devil, a witchcraft

it is to taste them; before it is morning.

.

.

I keep my good days in my back pocket,

sometimes they're forgotten, while

in other times I walk right over

them, I am told I don't love them, I stab

them again and again to drink their

blood, I wash the stains, erase

every possible clue, manipulate the

evidences, I even don't care if someone

steals them from me, I expose

every bit of my back looking for the

things I need to have, how pathetic it all

sounds, right? I don't do these to be

honest, I just know that if I keep

them before my eyes, I'd grow a lust,

a very ominous lust, a weird longing for

a good time, may be I'd kill someone

to take his place, or burn a home

for my mansion, I let the back pocket

bleed through the crack, I wobble

through the crowded metros where the

good days get wet of the heat,

I keep them in the sun, they dry up

over my skin, every drop of sweat slips

down my legs and all I now know

is that a good day is a storm,

if I hold it properly it'd take me on

its ride, if I do not someone might steal

it from me, then my back would hurt.

 

 

The Undescribable Wishes

 

I want to touch the linings of courage;

the scars it banished, and places

it dug its shoes in; sitting on

my bed, I listen to a couple quarrelling;

I need the debris of a stupid

thought about a shoe I can't wear,

and the bad jokes I crack to burn fear;

I am asked to hold on to courage -

to not break, I want to witness

the disobedience of a mind when

it is about to lose itself - when time is

running thin I want to touch every

bit of the courage to wonder

where did I go wrong? I want to be

wrong, I want to know courage like the

woman whose finger knows when

to count me in - when I'd break

the next time, I don't want to thrive

without having a clue of where to step.

.

.

I desire to weave the chunks of hatred,

some would assemble on my palm,

aligning wisely with the margins

of my future -- others would stay

separate, on the scars of yesterday,

lost souls of a winter and the thoughts

of a million lives -- love recognizes

the one I am, the ones I do not

know are known to hatred, the unseen,

untold stories are not written to be

read, but if this world spills open

with all its armory then we scribble

everything that hasn't been said, words

we aren't fond of arranging -

discomfort isn't always a robber,

it works in weird ways - when we are

on the road to hate we get to meet new

signs - on the top of every sign I can

see a window and a ghost, it looks

like me but I guess I've to wear

the straightjacket of hatred to buy

them - I want to see how the auction

is the phase, compassion can't provide.

.

.

I am longing to draw pain - without any

man crying -- or doing nothing that

leads me to its ending quickly,

the story of pain happens to be the

love story we don't want to be hanging

in the favorite corners of our home,

- it's natural that we can't allow

us to succumb everything that calls

for attention; pain tries to trigger a look

we don't give to everyone, it weaves

the intense 'yes' to a resting 'no'

and warms the calmness, a prophet

locks horn with the weaver who knows

how to reincarnate - I'd love to show

my puppy the door which knows

the people I haven't met yet - I either

drink some wine or swallow some pills

to be unaware of the door; I want to

see what appears when the door

to the dormitory of pain opens up to

the wise one I know, I guess he'd return

without stepping in - I'd befriend the

idiot who knows that it is just a

door, it leads to a room - I won't lose

the door, it can be opened again, I want

to not know the wise one who never

painted anything that needed attention

- not wisdom - life, and not survival.

No comments :

Post a Comment

We welcome your comments related to the article and the topic being discussed. We expect the comments to be courteous, and respectful of the author and other commenters. Setu reserves the right to moderate, remove or reject comments that contain foul language, insult, hatred, personal information or indicate bad intention. The views expressed in comments reflect those of the commenter, not the official views of the Setu editorial board. प्रकाशित रचना से सम्बंधित शालीन सम्वाद का स्वागत है।