Poetry

Sam Austin photo

By

Rony Nair

Linctus

There are backpacks of redemption,

filled with silt. Misanthropy.

Masquerades of entropy spewing in                          from the gutters inside the head

through teat tubes

flowing downwards                                                     sick recesses in your brain

oozing down your neck.                      inebriated.                  insane.

There must be waddings of contusion.

taxidermal.                                                                 Spectroscopic visages

Witnesses sitting in judgement.                                             Freshly minted crime.

Wandering minds prequalify                                      playing the last post

crossing shift lines,                                                     slow moles on your neck

aligned.                                                           Dots.                Chins.

Furrows draw new borders.                Naked.             Sin bins.

how will it look                                                                        if I made soap out of cowdung?

how will it look                                                                        if I made water out of wine?

how will I look                                     if you escaped from the shadows?

how will I look                                     if our minds were mine!

Juwairiya 6

there wouldn’t be codeine breasts

saddled rests

linctus braking away in rebellion. releasing

android sperms and conjugal

births

ejaculations in falsehood

conjoin and burn

through it all went you and me

distorted versions of blasphemy

wicker chairs and blurry glares

your hand rests now

where your head once did

rattled spaces

conjoined grades.

coded anger. whispered hate

through it all we bite each other,

stealing stasis, killing time.

Untitled

you wouldn’t know where you lost yourself,

as you run and run

against grains, of myth and deception, against feints of grope and disambiguation.

you run as fast as the causes change

beneath mew toned facades, renewed erections. strawberry lanterns, culverts to the bed.

hold all’s grope the narrow edges where hope

once cascaded in a filtered sequence of spectrum analysis.

art you said, was photos shot in hues of greenery,

and rabid dogs, running past their victim

once they had him splayed down across

nunneries; of deception.

Complaint no:

the most celibate rooms run posters of circular sprawl.

contours of color,

to pretend that our drab lives make gaudy leitmotif.

yet there are corners where books sit and watch over them all

books I held a long time ago

before they were touched.

by you.

Rony Nair

Rony Nair’s been a worshipper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as he could think. They have been the shadows of his life.

Rony Nair is a poet, photographer and a part time columnist. His professional photography has been exhibited and featured in several literary journals. His poetry and writings have previously been featured by Chiron Review, Sonic Boom, The Indian Express, Mindless Muse, Yellow Chair Review, New Asian Writing (NAW), The Foliate Oak Magazine, Open Road Magazine, Tipton Review, and the Voices Project, among over 40 other publications. He cites V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald as influences on his life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes as his personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book he would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts!