Nakul Sood

Rookie (14.02.1977 / Ernakulam, Kerela)

Untitled - Poem by Nakul Sood

The boy looked at her
And said,
‘My abrasions are yours
‘My spasms
‘Voluntary, involuntary, reactive;
‘My blood is yours...
‘What do you want? ’
She smiled, because she didn’t care,
She wanted different things.

Click!

The lonely and perverse, sit
In dark, green rooms,
With their heads in their hands
Waiting to be discovered and conveyed,
Waiting to become, unbecoming.
And they ask questions like
How much, of who I am, do you know?

Insufficiencies in our/their blood,
Insurgent forces of desolation,
And pity.
Quiet cities of sorrow in hearts,
Built like towers to the sky.
Humans hunched,
Coiled in dark doorways,
On sofas, feigning life,
Beggared to the tune of flutes...
The Tiber and the Thames, drinking from
The cool pitcher promise of the intellectual.

There is nothing left remarkable.
There is nothing left unremarkable.

Loyalties are wearing thin,
She is not wrong,
Betrayed in the deepest consequence
By her perception.
Are the values intrinsic
Or acquired?
Can’t the thin be accused of gluttony?
He loved her enough to promise to feed her,
But it didn’t matter;
She was insatiable.

Life without satiety, how are we to live?
This was our conception, how are we to give?

The privations are measured,
Quartered and black
Unavailable for a reason,
They are of your own creation
And delusional;
Only the Realist can live in delusions,
Afforded his right, to be Real.

The times are strange
Sensitive people are concerned
With only their sensitivities,
Like selfish potted plants.
We/They must make allowances
For us/them.

Alas,
We are inadequate in our hearts—
On the edges of windows, and verandahs,
Over gaping streets... walking about
Consumed by our liquid morality,
Moving like palsy,
Turned here and there, everywhere—
Unable to see ourselves.

A desperate swarm of youth
With wide honest eyes and clear brows,
Wearing the con of honesty;
Lost defrauders
In the folds of mimicry,
Pulling a societal balloon of all desire
Under the ripples of tortured skin.

We must re-paint these faces
We must re-learn the purpose
We must reclaim our lives!

‘We are feeding ourselves, to ourselves.’

Those who sit in the dark
Cry inconsolable tears
Into tape recorders;
Points of light,
Motions in straight lines, unconcerned
With things.

‘Consciousness sticks to my hands
‘Affecting my breathing, ’
The boy said,
‘I want to be unconscious
‘I want to breathe.’

There is nothing left unremarkable.
There is nothing left remarkable.

Click!


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, June 18, 2008



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