How to escape a Skinner box
Electronic relationships are the easiest to erase
Reject all phone calls, Blacklist the number, Block him everywhere
Just hit the ‘delete’ button and it’s all over
Go without talking to him this minute and you can
Go the next and the next and for every minute after that
As if nothing had ever happened.
If one plus one is no longer infinity
Cut him off;
Erase all memories as though you had never met or known or understood or loved
This man; Like no one had ever known or loved or understood you.
Remember how big the world is and how little you are in it,
How ephemeral your feelings and fallacious your knowledge
Remind yourself: you are just five senses and
He, seventy-two-point-six percent water;
If this river runs its course
Let it
What would remain of you but
A few photographs (delete them)
A song (change the soundtrack)
And the feelings after rosé-induced baby talk?
Ignore, ignore all stimuli and chant this like a mantra:
In a twenty-six letter world, eight are negligible
Only one is holy
‘I’
Escape.
***
Wendy Kroy
Your attempts to win her over are
The tale of Sisyphus’ life-
Her wounded eyes, the spider’s snare
When you lose yourself between her thighs, prepare
To have her endless legs crush your neck-
She’ll trap you in her web of lies
Smile when you meet her
Kiss her even; But be aware-
Of that pistol in your pocket
Never forget this: If you hesitate to kill her
She will kill you; Beware-
This is a woman to be worshipped, not loved;
Aspire to no more than being her designated fuck,
Whatever you do keep your opinions to yourself
If she wanted the truth, she’d torture it out of you;
Remember she likes her men like her drinks
Stiff, blue
Don’t try to run or hide
You may be damned if you do but
You’re dead if you don’t
For the moment, prepare
To be snuffed out like her hourly cigarettes.
*** Two Poems
How to escape a Skinner box
Electronic relationships are the easiest to erase
Reject all phone calls, Blacklist the number, Block him everywhere
Just hit the ‘delete’ button and it’s all over
Go without talking to him this minute and you can
Go the next and the next and for every minute after that
As if nothing had ever happened.
If one plus one is no longer infinity
Cut him off;
Erase all memories as though you had never met or known or understood or loved
This man; Like no one had ever known or loved or understood you.
Remember how big the world is and how little you are in it,
How ephemeral your feelings and fallacious your knowledge
Remind yourself: you are just five senses and
He, seventy-two-point-six percent water;
If this river runs its course
Let it
What would remain of you but
A few photographs (delete them)
A song (change the soundtrack)
And the feelings after rosé-induced baby talk?
Ignore, ignore all stimuli and chant this like a mantra:
In a twenty-six letter world, eight are negligible
Only one is holy
‘I’
Escape.
***
Wendy Kroy
Your attempts to win her over are
The tale of Sisyphus’ life-
Her wounded eyes, the spider’s snare
When you lose yourself between her thighs, prepare
To have her endless legs crush your neck-
She’ll trap you in her web of lies
Smile when you meet her
Kiss her even; But be aware-
Of that pistol in your pocket
Never forget this: If you hesitate to kill her
She will kill you; Beware-
This is a woman to be worshipped, not loved;
Aspire to no more than being her designated fuck,
Whatever you do keep your opinions to yourself
If she wanted the truth, she’d torture it out of you;
Remember she likes her men like her drinks
Stiff, blue
Don’t try to run or hide
You may be damned if you do but
You’re dead if you don’t
For the moment, prepare
To be snuffed out like her hourly cigarettes.
*** Strawberries
There’s been a mistake.
You didn’t expect this glitch.
This vanishing point
of a private murmuring city.
This fumbling
in a void of spreading
formlessness
(they told you it would
be a flower, not a slit).
Greedy mouth,
how many fingers
can you swallow?
In the movies, you would
unzip her out of her dress
and she is sexy alabaster,
leaning against the stairs,
a sell-out pimping her nipples,
readying them for your touch.
In real life, she is tired
of the metaphors - earth
and mother and whatnot.
In real life, ecstasy is far
from pretty, a groaning sickness
spasming on the carpet.
You are quickly learning
about the revolution that
brews beneath her flesh -
a whispered language of
rite and ferocity and the
invisible mountain she carries.
That to sleep,
you must lock away
your inheritance.
To emerge,
a world must unlearn itself,
then flood, then burn.
When the twitching stops,
you uncork her
(of course, she is
a bottle of wine to you)
and pour out the paraffin
from her mangled bones.
Flickering tongues
from hell lick the salt
off her thighs.
No pain felt she.
Burn'd like one burning
flame together.
You went looking for strawberries,
instead you found the manic whore,
the universe’s relentless core.
Two poems
Being Belindas
(a response to Pope's Rape of the Lock)
The mirror hangs before me
My long face stares back at me
a pointed chin
whose rounding I dread
A tiny forehead
gleaned from the thick mass
of black hair surrounding it.
At the black hair
now streaked with red
I oscillate between
fascination and nostalgia
The hair, mostly helter-skelter
sometimes, precise in a bun
A glazed eyeball
with its bit of plastic-glas lens
A newly pierced nose--
a shade too large
showing off that li'l bit of green
My ears trying to seek attention
with their multiple studs and rings
which I regard as pets
And a moody mouth.
but on the whole, a face
I can live with.
My skin the colour
of burnt caramel
a thin, supple body
I am unashamedly
in love with.
Bottles and vials lined
in an array on the slab beside me
the daily ritual
of cleansing, toning, conditioning
the creams and the perfumes
the chief kohl that lines my eyes
the earrings in their silver box
the cupboard with its
greater assortment of clothes
than i could ever wear
the occupational hazards
of being a young girl.
Oh Pope, and other misogynists!
We love being Belindas
and Belindas we shall remain
with our bottles and our vials
our bibles and our billet doux
and we rebel against rapes
of our locks and otherwise.
our bodies and their vagaries
and tricks we play with them
are ours.
And not playthings or objects
for your phallus
or that inglorious phallic symbol
your pen.
***
Almost Rape
“bhaiya, is this the rajiv chowk metro?”
“yes, take the next metro that comes”
“ok, thank you”
“do you live here?”
“No, I just came to visit someone”
“I work here, in the metro”
“ok”
“in the metro bathroon, come with me, I'll show you the bathroom”
“I can't! The metro comes in 2mins now”
“so what? It will come again soon. Let me show you the bathroom”
“I can't! I have a very long journey ahead. I can't possibly waste
time and go with you.”
“Madam, the metro is very quick and fast, your journey will not be
long. Come with me to the bathroom, please come with me to the
bathroom......”
