anuj dahal

i only deal in absolutes,
in outré dreams and fickle truths
the poky speed of feckless youth—
invulnerable to change

then fix a bowl of nothing soup,
and gorge on packaged pickled shoots;
the bamboo bits lodged in my tooth
sit stabbing at my brain

it sprouts inside my throat and lungs,
and flows in waves beneath my tongue
with bated breath, tokeko nang,
my wayward mind to blame

then blooms upon my fingertips,
and runs in streaking ember bits,
puddles of ink where patience slips:
akrasia, for shame.

please ignore the putrid smell—
wilted tongue and candle wicked
fi'ry gall, o fie upon
the cursèd hands beneath the picket
reaching for a purer soul
to leech and free of freedom flitted
layers of the mangled organ:
pressèd keys, the tune ill-witted

seeping into wrinkled tissue,
huffing floral-scented diction,
peeling at the cardiac
to pierce the thing with 4D vision

suckle on the needle,
feign discovery, enlightenment,
the hubris of the damned is shattered right upon indicting it

and leave it lying on the page—
wretched lies and malice-driven
malisons contrived from guilty
images of horror-stricken
men inside the mirror
forming virtual conglomeration,
stripped of personality
and wiped of moral obligation.

betwixt the minstrel's mines, forsooth,
i nigh lose all fragility
in sailing straight alee,
it seems i've
drifted past humility

elixir, crystal, lines, a booth,
denials in soliloquy,
in flailing fate, alleviate
what shred i've
'massed stability

affixed the pistol, .9, to sleuth
if bile grants validity
in bailing late; abbr.
eviated thoughts i've
cast, admittedly:

apparel: vested, brazen gown
it's twirling 'round and 'round and 'round
the chamber, crank the trigger, now
the barrel pressed against my crown
is itching for a reason to
recoil, and i'm spilling out

a slurry of hypocrisy
i've made it to the throne
and yet,
the bane of meritocracy,
i've left her all alone
performing on my heart an autopsy
and scouring my dome
to find the wrinkles filled with epoxy
and holes repaired with bone.

unraveling the love i've laundered,
rolling up my woolen sleeves,
the words condensed in clouds of sonder
pour and drift through autumn breeze

and whistle through the chimes that you've
left dangling beneath your ears,
the melody unfettered,
uninhibited by fickle fears,

still carries but a note of what you mean to me;
a demisemiquaver in the face of all eternity,
but if, for thirty-seconds, i can break from this monotony
and sing to you a song whose lyrics constitute a harmony,
then i can bid adieu

take a look:
forsaken pieces
lost to skewered elephants

my dearest vice,
your zenith lies
in valleys of my elegance

deny the draw
to watch me scramble,
landing on ineloquence

the damnèd ticking,
mocking bouts of
unrequited sentiments

it's pooling in my mouth again:
honey-slick vocabulary
laced in informalities,
the urge to bare my crooked teeth.

my body's fallen victim
to your subtle incapacitating
limerence in lethal doses
staining red my stinging cheeks.

my darling knows my pressure points;
she prods at them methodically,
her diction glazed in honey
and her piercing gaze leukotomy

the meraki in every touch—
i long, my dear, one thing: to be
a sculpture moistened by your lips
and moulded by your artistry

if you'll indulge me, tell me my
aloofness makes me look askance
and when you whisper nothings to me,
cease your hearing in advance

just close your eyes at that! because
your gaze will make a mess of me
i'm turning to the audience
and squealing in soliloquy

fingers crosséd,
eyelids shut,
éclair!
i swear it happened, but

my hands were sodden,
palms were clasped
in prayer;
your snare entrapping what

now little i have left
to call
despair,
and calling thunder unto

ev'ry last inhibitor—
right there!

i can't resist
the current flow

grab my hand,
envelop me in light,
your liquid effervescence;

tilt my head,
drip stardust in my eyes.
this fleeting adolescence

hasn't an effect
on how i yearn
to fall in orbit with you:

bodies in a
system uninfected by
the horrors of U

radiation: waves cast
from the source.
i swear to you, the

gravitation is an
ever-binding force.
you've shown me now

that prestidigitation
which can piece together
shattered hands

performing operations
still unshaken, my
once-droughted glands—

they moisten at
the thought:

i've heeded l'appel
du vide;

dived into my fate.

spilt onto a paperback,
i sputter ink and artefact,
the kickshaw in my cardiac
presented as hors d'oeuvre.

then lift the cloche from kneaded stacks
of braided prose and empty vats
once filled with cognizance ganache
and wince as you observe.

now sip on white-out super-glue
in hopes the dirty petals you
find stuck in stomach lining do
not cough up past the nerves.

but suckling the siphon, who
once clamored in indictment, knew
now choking on the hyphen
was a matter too absurd.