Amit Parmessur

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 19, 2011

Aged 28, Amit Parmessur hails from the beautiful island of Mauritius. He has been published in around 50 magazines including Poetry Bulawayo, Amaranthine Muses, a handful of stones, Burnt Bridge, Calliope Nerve, Black-Listed Magazine, Damazine and LITSNACK since late 2010. He also speaks French, Creole and Hindi and currently edits The Rainbow Rose at See more work here.

I Really Hate Just Crocodiles

I know your tears weigh tons

for they are crocodile ones and besides

when I look at you now my veins

turn into wires, sending waves

down my ambivalent toes.

I’m myself but teardrops rolling,

rolling and twirling into my barbaric beard,

an inverted triangle of mummified dreams;

I wanted to adore you

like the sea making love to the sand gently,

forth and back,

but you decided to become

muddy, muddier, the muddiest,

slipping into the hectic night behind my back.

I also wanted to serve you like

the fiery soldier never tired of the sound

of patriotism but you left

leaving a gory grape-sized bead on my lip—

don’t worry

I have learnt to smile at the hippopotamus

with birds on its head from the window and

I don’t need the peace of love

when I’ve found the one of death.

I hate crocodiles so stop crying;

you’ve bitten me past cure.

You are both a liar and a lie,

with such barbaric tears.


She brought poison to pour into my ears.

She bought some chocolate too to

fill my dead ear furrows to grow some potatoes;

Don’t call her a murderer, it’s my fate.

After she plucked my beautiful eyes she

said I didn’t understand that she wanted

to see her youth and smile in them.

Don’t call her a robber, she

has no office mirror.

Have you seen over there, how God

has pumped the gray earth into a mountain?

That’s what she told me, adding

how she wished God could pump

my miserly heart a bit into generous balloon.

Don’t call her a Hitler, she’s a divine blunder.

She’ll tattoo her name on my forehead as

my new sexy neighbor has just said

that she is a lucky woman.

She has torn all 13s in our calendars too;

Don’t call her jealous, it’s all about love.

She’s so sorry if she’ll be tearing my leg too for

she has lost her golf club; my precise gait

might finally help her.

Don’t call her a murderer.

Where’s her tee?

Can’t see it.

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