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.
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
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.