“Without struggle, there is no progress.” - Frederick Douglass

I don’t usually write out my thoughts but since today was a horrible day, I couldn’t resist. I’m one of those people who follow rules. If something says in a rule book, for instance, “no littering, no parking, no talking..”, I’d follow it all the way. My loved ones at times told me that following the rules isn’t always going to get you somewhere, you have  to break it to get there. I guess it applies in countries like in America or Canada but in Pakistan.. Since I moved here, I’ve been following rules and it hasn’t been any good as I was expecting of. As someone said to me, “If you follow the rules, you’ll be left behind while the others who break the rules are ahead of you.” I didn’t really understand what that meant at the time but sure as heck I know what it means now.

Unfortunately, I had to be sick. Still recovering from a 102.2 F fever and attending classes the next morning, I was looking forward to my day’s routine. While I was walking to school, I saw one of my classmates walking out and I asked him that if he is skipping class or not and he said that the schedule for tomorrow is today’s and only few students are attending it. I went anyway. Though, I went to the student administrator’s office first to get a voucher for my tuition fees, it wasn’t available. (Yesterday, I got a call that it was ready and available to pick it up.. lie!) So I said I will be back in an hour and the guy at the desk #1 said, “okay.” An hour later, it’s still not available. Man, this is irritating. I finally had it after 3 hours and said, “I need my voucher now! I have exams next month and if I don’t get to take those exams, it’ll be you’re fault! (Then I said something in Urdu..)” Finally, the guy from desk #2 printed out and gave it to me. When I bashed out the door, I heard my name and it was the Vice Principal giving me this weird look as if I committed a crime.

He asked, “So (my name), you got the voucher?” I replied, “Yes sir. Finally.” He said, “Good. We need the extra late fees anyway. We’re poor.” I was so furious from how my day was going and on top of that how sick I was but went to school anyway, I said back, “Well sir, I don’t think you need extra money when all the students are paying 15k dollars each year and in your new batch, it’s 18k.” Then it became an argument and I noticed a few seconds later, a professor who had her first teaching day today as a clinical lecturer about hirsutism, stood by and started to listen. The VP started complaining on how our school’s reputation has no reputation and that money for us is nothing and we should give it all as much as we can. I usually don’t argue ‘cause I respect them and pretend to think that they know what they’re talking about but I was really pissed. So pissed that I ended up talking back and nearly, in the end when I said, “You aren’t working hard enough for this school to run and have a reputation, all you care about how money you should get while working for nothing.” He was silent for a second and then said, “Go away. I don’t want to see your face right now.”

I should regret of what I said to him ‘cause he is my future forensic science professor. But whatever. I’ve had it with “follow the leader”. I don’t even know if this story was about following rules or not, but I just had to rant. #afml

                                                         - Faryal Aisha Mahmood

Possession

I have you
where you do not want to be.
What can I hope to keep
with my body
that would not stay for my mind.

Chronicles of sepia and grainy
black and white.
Stowed away in my closet
Under shameful panties
too big bras.
Lies a time that did not know puberty
The texture of breasts no more
than soft white fluid
air in a balloon
deflate.

I could show you this.

Crossroads jammed
with yellow buses.
Street hawkers selling me lunch.
A small structure rises suddenly
you would miss it.
If it weren’t for that man
whose bust holds claim over four feet of space.
I fell here. Legs splayed. Skirt in the air.
Surrounded by stunned parents
not knowing whether to laugh or hold.
Only eleven, and so much information on my head.

Home. That sad faced room.
There you do not need meaning for neglect
The simple image would do.
This is the word coloring my walls.
Storehouses in a back alley motel,
Hold fewer secrets and strangers.
This I drag through lands.
Here I lived. And here. And here.

Somewhere I learnt desire and guilt.
Prayer and forgiveness. Soothing love of yours.
I have never known happiness since
not tainted with secrecy.
Somewhere a pasture.
Blindfolded I traveled in misted land
And returned to never be the same again.
Somewhere I was forced
Breasts extracted from my sallow chest
And a dead man no different
from maggots feasting on rats.
Separation no different from freedom.
To remember it carries always a price.
I have never known happiness since.

Here.
Why salvage that which only anticipates
its doom.

                                                                    - Pranoo Deshraju

Please be high when you read this.

A dream: I have applied gloss
made of urine and suddenly
My skin is bleeding in wounds.
The Blood spills off
umbilical cords
cut too late.Only yesterday
A lover I found.
Broke the dam of blood.
I found him without him wanting me
have him only in fantasy.
And nothing more.

                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

You have collected your life in photographs.
Archives of memory buried in secret coffins.
Flaccid entrails wet with thwarted hope.
How do faces come alive as volcanoes?
Swollen with screaming stigmata.
Your worry is your face.
Distracted glances see charcoal etched
 over eyes flowing tributaries of
mislead rituals of war.
This is blood.
Near the home you build on the edge of rail tracks.
Sucking stability from the sad gazes of wanderers.
And there over the mantelpiece,
you hang fragments
you are too afraid of forgetting.

                                                                    - Pranoo Deshraju

In the room lies a chair,Velvet green. Someone lived on it.Chose that among all the chairs in the world.Meadows forming rugged patterns where feet rested.What was her name? Now that I know the size of her feet,The length of her hair.Did she have the love of her life?They don’t tell me.But I remember her stories.Sometimes the rain brings jasmine scent And with it comes a voice.That had the time to listen.Mother. Do you know those tales The way I do. Why don’t you share That laughter with me?I see you gazing at the chair. Running your fingers through it.Me, repeating your motions when you are gone.You have chosen me to be your daughter.Have you not, my love?Out there, people live tales.What is yours?Maybe it will take me Away from the chaos of growing up.
Perhaps if I know your blood. I’d discover it is mine too. Perhaps then we’d find The chair more Than memory.                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

Erotica

Moving apparitions in the silken motions
of your body and mine.
Fingers entwining.Webbing themselves in the knots
of desire.
Tongues raging and teeth, armor
I have every weapon at my disposal.
This night here. Is to hurt you
and save us.
Tumbling to the trap of abstinence
Let our bodies remind us
Why your pillars fit into my caves
Blocking intruders. Harsh sunlight.
Leaving spiders tingling on my skin
Eight legs and two thumbs
Only the chilled sighs
in tandem,
Speak for us.
My anger is part of my love.
Piercing you.

If we were animals.
 I wouldn’t worry tomorrow.
Another will witness
the feats of your limbs
The way that mine contort
to be brushed by you.
You, Sisyphus
Bring me stones
to shield every orifice
Slipping in opium
You don’t cover me
as much as choke.
How even our toes
seek one another
In harried helplessness
For comfort.
Nude.
My eyes must still gaze into yours
Clouded in fantasy
Induced by my kisses
tongue lapsing into unaware
rhythm of your ripples
You, wanderer. Like the ocean
you want only to drench me.
The many intoxications
your pores have to offer.
The seconds are precious here
and must last.
Until my mouth opens
in the image of a tortured goddess
to welcome your sword
or my hands
conceive of clay
drawing hot rushes
whispering delirium
From corinthian artifice.
Your fingers, hooded snake
cup,violently cling
salivating monster,
hair ablaze
I am a bow.
A chandelier.
A machine
with buttons, you provoke
beast calls from.
And yet the war begins only
when
with a thrust
my ceilings collapse.
I don’t remember
your voice,
only the sweet moorings,
by a riverside
 turning to a drowsy storm.
I don’t remember,
we were two
asking of our mutual mystery
adhesive.
Now, smells envelope
We are- a spider-
-Eight limbs-
-a thin web of deceit binding-
Hallways at the aftermath of a war
Blood burning through sinews
You have unstitched me.I, you.
Leaving only a thigh in the air
and a goodbye.
When finally we crash against the rock
and a beast is drunk on
the hot universe,flowing in turn.
We must schedule another visit tomorrow.

                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

To Live

Every angle of the mirror distorts.
To look is not the same, even to me.
Always at the river.
Or a sorcerer’s ball.

Tell me,if you will.
Riding the stallion
of expectations.
I have yearned so far and so long.
Traveled through deserts
Only to find.
Another sand dune.
In the rage of a storm.
Traveled through oceans
to be shipwrecked
and not a raft.
This image alone
To cater to remembrance
and find fragmented
or swaying. Swinging
In shards. Complete.
Eyes not where I remember
Hands not as beautiful as I thought
Breasts weighed down by years
Somehow when I find what resembles
not me but the mirror.
Still my name I call.

                                                                - Pranoo Deshraju

Paragon of Madness

As dusk descends spreading blackness
Engulfing the Arch and all it’s sunlit beauty
I watch illumination of neon
Against a blackened canvas.


Standing upon this balcony
My eyes shift direction towards the earth
Looking upon wavering derricks
Congested minds wandering aimlessly.


Without bitterness they trample the pavement
Free in their simple ways, lacking the mental cage 
That hs been bequeathed to me
Feeling a psychological storm approaching near.


Dizzy and flushed the dreaded memories have returned
Eviscerated thoughts invading my subconscious
I stare out into the unknown
Cursing this hollow emptiness.


Haunting diabolic images of that horrid attack 
Thrashing and rattling my mental cage
A sense of black dread invaded my brain
The demons of woe and self pity are back again.


Leaving unwanted gifts of confusion and angst
Boxes placed with precision
A paragon lacking in sanity
Gifts of mar dissipate transforming into shape.


Vile bones dressed in malfeasance
Slithery phalanges controlled by perversion
Ripped tattered threads scattered about
Abortion of a soul is needed to erase.


Confucius be my middle name
I ponder and pace elevated above humanity
Toying with suicidal euphoria
Indecisiveness overwhelming cremation or graveyard.


I rest my daunting limbs and
Light a stick of peppermint pleasure
A halo of impending death cascading
I pour another whiskey burying this ominous.


And stare upon this barren city
Death shall not become today
The brain storm has passed
Releasing my proverbial vice.


I’m free once more
The demons have returned
To the depths of nothingness
The reaper will have to wait
Collection will not be today.

                                                                    - Tammy Barnes

If I die today

Regrets abundant,
As stars in the night.
The darkness grows,
Eating into the light.

Wreaths of sorrow,
Garland the scamp loose.
As time passes,
They tighten like a noose.

The star of his heart,
Has moved on in life.
Leaving him feeling,
Stabbed by a knife.

She came back to him,
Like the waves to shore.
But now a person different,
from the one before.

She hides things from him,
For reasons unknown.
When all his secrets,
Without thought he’s shown.

It kills him inside,
To know this fact.
The soul in tatters,
His heart cracked.

He will do anything,
To get back the old one.
He’ll drink entire oceans,
He’ll swallow the sun.

He’ll die trying,
if that is what’s needed.
He’ll pay attention to no one,
No warnings will be heeded.

But he cannot confront her,
He’ll live with what he got.
Because he can’t risk losing her,
He can’t stand the thought.

If he were to die today,
And had even seconds to spare.
He’d call her and listen hard,
Even cherishing dead air.

                                                                         - Akshat

Violence

My island is of loss. In this abandoned
wreck,jasmines abloom. My foot
hardened with callus. Protects me from
the rough ground.Sandpapers my skin
in peels. Words thrashing like waves
on the debris of my boat. My past glitters,
A long setting sun.

My island is of loss. In a perennial
sunset.Not even the solace
of nights. Maybe I could notice instead,
the sky igniting through mist. Colors no man should see. Lest
he reduces them to paper.Where my words
already are. Life size minimized. Butter paper shields
the moments from the ink they have derived of
my blood.
They are happy, and I always knew.

My island is of loss. Created as a rupture
on my skin. Separating flesh from flesh. A mound of grave dug soil. Lip
from lip.Etched in shock.A child’s tale, where letters
float of theri own accord.Spaces filling sounds,filling
spaces.Bringing to mind,
parties of forgetfulness.Liquor flows only so,
we’d have something in common.
Finally. And maybe this island
would drift to land.
But all that ever happens is-
Whiskey drowns in water.Suddenly,
my sea is an ocean.And I am no
closer to the luxury of the (much acclaimed)
loneliness in company. Than I were, in an island of loss, unable
to find my limbs.
Unable to find my limbs, my voice, my ears
drowned in waves.No recourse,
no thoughts. Only the endless soothing waves
that have become the bane  of my madness.

Where does no thought find words for its silence?

Foreign names have seen into my soul. But here I am
enduring my existence. And no one knows.

                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

Philistine

American art is a good thing.

We take the drugs and the alcohol and the psychedelic trip- look reindeer staring at the headlight kill it before it pierces your heart with its skull. The hair are straight but my eyes are not. they are deeply gouged out. And I see the light. I see a big gas chamber and a little boy pleading for his gang raped, hymen destructed, multi-tooled , Swiss knife wedged, fully equipped for pleasure and self destructive  mother. There are far too many cocks in the world today, my son. But Museums are a good thing. The heroes have been uprooted from their heroic grounds and placed on pedestals to put the fear of god in your heart. Remember how the ancients knew their good and evil even when they were killing, pillaging, raping,holding crusades and telling you that your birth is a legitimate reason to kill you. Remember how the gods rode on thunder like the airplanes of today and spoke to you even when you were not drugged, or asleep or deranged. They feasted in your houses and told you what was right. The gods knew how to have their way with us then i tell you. And now even with everything we have accomplished, We could not create a Stonehenge or pyramid with a few thousand men waiting for their limbs to be cut off. Our past could do things our present cannot. Fuck the future, you hear me. How dare you ask? Tomorrow an earthquake will strike and it will not matter anymore- have you not heard about Teutonic plates- the media that makes our daily science into a profound prophecy of disaster. This is it, end of game, my dear. Chess is a good thing.Horses and camels and bishops everywhere. Pawns with their limited movements and always the paralyzed king. In this game, it is the queen that does all the work. And the final fall is the king. Always the king. Survival of the fittest and Protection of the weak The ever handicapped king. What good did these 64 squares ever do, to what end do I prove my strategic intelligence. Squares black and white, marble inlay, mother of pearl, sandalwood and oak and pine and timber and sweat. Snakes and ladder and dollhouses taught a child more about life than this game ever did Why go so far,do so much  the small room becomes a childhood house- enacting all the events of your parents- yes even the sex and violence and screaming banshees of the nightmare they call marriage. Children are a good thing .Panting and screaming and drawing and wanting ever bloody wanting. Judging. In 10 years they will hate you. Another 10 and they will only fear they do not become you. Give them 40, they will understand you and mostly it will be too late. Maybe you are dead, else you too will realize it doesn’t matter anymore.
But yes- it is a good thing.                                                                      - Pranoo Deshraju

To Self.

Of love.The old names return with new scalpels
Leave me not even a break for repair.
Whom do I blame?
I carry surgery in a kit
for the lonesome sundays
Over coffee.Let us dissect one another.
You, lamenting lovelessness
disguised in too much love.
Maybe this time when you piece yourself up,
leave your heart on the plate.
A stale muffin.
                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

My country breathes in me.
I, running from the cages of my ancestors
find my words clashing,surrendering into
the great ocean that has seen it all.
These lanes, so long desolate
still ring with the blood of palatial dreams,
now left to their destinies
tumbling down, the bricks of vision.

All the women of the world walk with me.
I have seen tears glistening in solitary darkness.
And sometimes,
My eyes water.
When? I don’t know, how or why.
anklets tinkle on my naked ankles.
And the rhythm singing in me,
comes to me from centuries ago.

Beetle stained lips.
Old man looks with disdain
at my game of crook.
Socks have been lost.Eternity searching for its pair.
My foot shines through the holes.
Somewhere it rains through perforated canopies.
And the septuagenarian is sad,
I have unlearned love.

You, so well lit in your psychedelic nightmares,
There is no doubt, no fear anymore
Of how they touch you.
These intimacies end on your skin.
As though no sea could enter sand anymore.
My country languishes in deep groans
soft veils cover,the wounds that penetrate
and scar me.

There is an offer of unfelt anguish
Vicarious tears ring untrue, perhaps
Do I ask you, if I can still call
this distant land
mine?

How do I still call out to the past of history books
And find my blood coursing through words?

                                                                   - Pranoo Deshraju

Sin unto me

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