Virat Kohli, the run scorer
Inside the television, Virat Kohli has already scored a run, or two, maybe three
And that was the new time; I changed my tastebud invigoration choice
from Assamese to Honey tea. From Fort Kochi, I remember, drinking Bits of Nepali coffee, tangy and spicy, steam brewing up,
The next day, I was only passing stool
Passing stool, commandments.
New found excitements; seminal, cawing.
I was trying to forget you,
I couldn’t bear that much of marriage—
I felt, as if, he is a bit too intellectualist outside
Of our home, inexistent, home sweet home
A bit too old, that was fine still.
I can’t bear that much ‘marriage’
I sink, little, a little.
There has been since when? Since time
not many sixes can we blame it on Virat Kohli? Can we?
As he and Virat Kohli are friends
From day to night, things grew redder, meaner
Every time Virat Kohli failed to score, every-time Virat Kohli’s marriage suffered
I told him I was not interested, fowler, meaner, This time.
Walking out of stones,
I forget and keep my body in a domestic mussel shell or abandon myself
at the distance of an elbow
While mansplaining after an age, it becomes your responsibility, it was your responsibility
I have protruding chin,
since my early childhood I have only heard about you, If everything is undone, starting from now,
to your life, to your dad’s life and to your mom’s life,
You still wouldn’t become an athlete—
The lepidopterist
Cheap fish nets woven
into nets trap nets
my lad picks up a trap net
drags it—
His large face has
giant eyeballs those fit
gaps of the net
checkered gauze-like
whites of his eyes
from the kitchen
he melts candles catch
butterflies catch bees,
antennae intrusive,
colour resembling a group
wings lined with colour
and filament thin
Bickering and roaming —
he has a big face,
wide to the end—
crooked nose arched
like the abdomen
of butterflies crisp
like that of a wasp’s
crackling as we step on it
During breakage
fowl mouth of the insects appear
timber and wood in the creek
in the news, out of the old
walkman, on the wooden bench
we listen
to iranians fighting for freedom
in the garage, showels, spanners
Old beads, spare gears,
those road-mugged teeth!
The lepidopterist
catches a rattlesnake
under the lens his eyes under
the glasses concave
eyeballs bulging out
lips bent
A rattlesnake
a common snake and a cobra
lie awake, giggles!
the blood of the red butterfly
thick and buttery, diagrams
and soft music out of the cassette
The backyard has specimens
butterflies in vinegar, butterflies in acid
during bright daylight
with gargantuan limbs they emerge
its breathing holes shrunk, wings bent
With a pencil
light to the touch of the white paper,
those diagrams resemble the abdomen
or the thorax of the butterflies he eat
wings and a lepidopterist
Gunk, grunge and dark poop
a lepidopterist;
awake and turning in his mat
He is ugly,
o lepidopterist he has a hooked nose,
a tall forehead unusually round
at the top, ill-fitting hairline to the sides
A thimble with which he shuts
the bottle that has the abdomen
of the fly a thimble so perishable.
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