Flesh of the Republic, Serial, Bitching Anamnesis (c) Kushal Poddar

Flesh of the Republic
Body and flesh float away.
Rivulets. Entire sky
seeks an address, finds
my vein instead.
Where will you lose
the threads that sew a quilt,
patchwork, tales?

Winter comes and goes;
frost never melts;
you know what I mean.
Body and flesh float into
my vein, and I ask them for their permits;
they can inside, but can not permeate;
I won’t let them be the citizens
of this rotten republic.

SERIAL

He records his chitchats

with the cab drivers, not all,

those with the ones

he kills.

 

There exist avenues

and lanes of cabs taxiing

driverless,

 

and recordings replayed

over and again in his id,

and then

 

he finds his son working

for an app-cab using

a forged license.

 

He records his son, as if

his ears metamorphose themselves

into two answering machines,

defunct.

 

These annals are better

than any psychiatrist’s,

the father of everything

listening to his killer instinct.

 

BITCHING ANAMNESIS

 

Deluge, the bitching mistress on our backs,

bites our earlobes as

I sent your claim – I can

efface life memorized.

 

I can. Only mine. The process

involves adding more, not less,

the same way you do most of the days,

except those when it rains

in the excuse of this balcony or

when it shines and you stare downwards,

see the hissing serpent of the traffic

looking up at you, out of reach.

 

I do not rerun the tapes, listen

to the protest pops from the Nam times.

Rain writhes to arrest my mind,

albeit an antiquated man has his disinterests.

I say, “Just forget.”

https://www.amazon.com/Kushal-Poddar/e/B07V8KCZ9P for his books on Amazon

@kushalpoe on twitter

I Was as Cold as A Razor Blade by Kushal Poddar

In the late autumn winter

whimpers in her oxygen tent,

and we nurse this premature child,

see her wither, bloom, sear, brown, exsiccate.

 

Hence December surprises us

when she arrives for a date

wearing white sleeveless

and drinks from someone else’s chalet.

The potion was red. The poison bears no effect.

 

We toss our fedoras, shuffle to dance,

tire out and stroll outside,

our feet disappearing inside

the heart of crushed water.

Our hands in the pockets of warmth

seeks for a tinge of Yes

and finds some forlorn gums

we keep for protection’s sake.

 

*The title is wordplay on Leonard Cohen’s So Long, Marianne

 

@kushalpoe on twitter:

on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Kushal-Poddar/e/B07V8KCZ9P

He has many works published in litmags including Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest & Avalanches in Poetry in which this piece came from.   Follow him today and read his wonderful poetry.

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