Amit Parmessur

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 24, 2013

Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur has been published in over 100 literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review, Misfits’ Miscellany, Jellyfish Whispers, Kalkion and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Web Anthology. He lives in Quatre-Bornes, in Mark Twain’s paradise island Mauritius, with his cat and three dogs.

Lackadaisical Old Woman



Last night I dreamed of an old woman

and she invited me to be her sexy scorpion.

She asked me to define the perfect kiss

so I said indifferently two pairs of divine lips,

one to root in times of tornadoes

and one to blossom in times of perfection.

Of course I wasn’t referring to her lips.

She then said we’re joyous, sacred children

and invited me for some love on her sofa.

Why couldn’t it be Scarlett Johansson?



She said triangles aren’t that sincere, as if

she’d been trapped in all their angles before

and she remarked that if someone’s spirit is firm

others will be fucked and added that what’s lost

in Bermuda is lost, lost and lost forever.

She tried to caress me but my arm slunk.

Why couldn’t it be Freida Pinto?



She wanted us to brew immortal magic,

to fool god, to be erotic, sadistic scorpions

and spread our race on her soft, pink sofa.

She even said that she could be as hot as

the noon sun and wanted me to misplace

myself in all her celestially pure labyrinths.

Why couldn’t it be Winslet or another Kate?



I braced myself for more from her.

She vanished.



Wild and Mild



Her bangles! Whirligigs of piety.

Her feet bending like reeds

billowing in the fragrant wind.

Her mermaid-like hips!

Crazy, I love her so much that

I’ll let her spit into my mouth

while I watch the scythe-like moon.

I’m a satyr eager to give

up grazing so that the romantic wind

can blow my thin body

into her silky arms.

There my hungry eyes will read

the pages in her quiet, silver bosom.



This half empty bottle on

the table tells me that

my life is half full.

The key next to the dormant guitar

says a few doubts

have to be unlocked.

The patient explorer I am may go

all the way. The angry fox

in me may start

to bite after half a half mile.

Hope her cartoon-like father will

stop hammering my fingers, or else—



When it rains I still take my

umbrella to water my lawn;

I want it green for my princess.

People’s blablabla in my ears.

Like giving grass to a hungry tiger.

I’m now a hardworking Garfield.

An honest Scar.

It’s just time to fill the half

full bottle even if I have to use

red teardrops instead of water.



Me, Megrim and Melancholia



I’m getting late in everything.

Sitting with loneliness as firm friend

I observe two men, through the

window of the roaring, stagnant bus.

They are competing

to see who’ll have the bigger belly.



I observe the slashed streets

bleeding with unheard protests.

I realize the safest place

to live, without megrim, is the mind.

I wish I could call myself a vibrant sega,

the Creole music of our local slaves.



Town I know where lies your beauty.

Down there near the frog mountain

where I smoked for the first time

(and before last!) with my favorite cousin.

The dogs barked so loud.

He promised to make me a man



where watercress billows and where

the fish fly when you disturb them.



We join the road now!

I observe the useless police station,

as James Blunt charms my excited ears.

It’s cold; the bus’s bumping like a camel

in a populated desert as the moon

looks like the biggest belly ever.



There’s an ant walking on my lips.



The Sword Called Hatred



Today his hatred

seeped, sinuously, into the cold key

he used to open a fresh door,

with the pane just mended.



The anger hissed into the chalk

he used to instruct his students

on the calm Friday blackboard.

He hates all ologies but kisses hateology.



Like maggots this anger moved his

feet down the stairs and made

him stop, stare at her disjointed face

in the once penitent photo.



The anger threatened his tongue between

every breath. He wanted

to tell her that every teardrop is a

waterfall of hatred burning his throat.



Today his anger

seeped sinuously into the song

playing cold on his body,

a thousand times, ripping his ears.



He bit his nails to burgeon new,

black fingers to point at her.

He did not ask for the moon, goodness me!



The light of the entire world cannot

hide the darkness of this castrated candle.

The man hates, like a pane mended just.



Let’s Corrupt Corruption



because the doors of corruption

have been plying and plying, for years

have brought but feathery doorstops.


Politicians turn corruption into violin

and play the secret music

of corruption


but lead and err

do not make leader.


Undress the apple of corruption

to pluck the pebbles of truth.


Life is like zebra crossings – all

the cars of conscience stop

when gain sits on the crossings.


Let’s stop the rot.

Let’s deserve what we clinch,

and clinch what we deserve.

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