Malemnganbi

“Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus

Give me peace, Shubha, let me have peace

Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream

Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm

Would I have been like this if I had different parents?

Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm?

Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father?

Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my dead brother without Shubha?

Oh, answer, let somebody answer these

Shubha, ah, Shubha

Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen

Come back on the green mattress again

As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of magnet's brilliance

I remember the letter of the final decesion of 1956

The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon at that time

Fine rib-smashing roots were descending into your bosom

Stupid relationship inflted in the bypass of senseless neglect

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

I do not know whether I am going to die

Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience

I'll disrupt and destroy

I'll split all into pieces for the sake of Art

There isn't any other way out for poetry except suicide

Shubha

Let me enter into the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora

Into the absurdity of woeless effort

In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart

Why wasn't I lost in my mother's urethra?

Why wasn't I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition?

Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum-flux or in the phlegm?

With her eyes shut supine beneath me

I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize Shubha

Women could be treacherous even after unfolding a helpless appeareance

Today it seems there is nothing so treacherous as Women and Art

Now my ferocious heart is rinning towards an impossible death

Vertigoes of water are coming up to my neck from the pierced earth

I will die

Oh what are these happening within me?

I am failing to fetch out my hand and my palm

From the dried sperms on my trousers spreading wings

300000 children are gliding toward the district of Shubha's bosom

Millions of needles are now running from my blood into Poetry

Now the smuggling of my obstinate leg is trying to plunge

Into the death killer sex-wig entangled in the hypnotic kingdom of words

In violent mirrors on each wall of the room I am observing

After letting loose a few naked Malay, his unestablished scramblings.”
― Malay Roy Choudhury, Selected Poems

“as soon as we renounce fiction and illusion, we lose reality itself; the moment we subtract fictions from reality, reality itself loses its discursive-logical consistency.”
― Slavoj Žižek, Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology

“There are things known
and there are things unknown
and in between are the doors.”
― Jim Morrison, Letters from Joe

“He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.”
― Bob Marley