The Mango Curry

The beauty that is

Mango Pulsedi 

This deserves the Nobel prize

My exclamation on a full stomach 

Holds truth and supercilious dreams

Not knowing if the Nobel even cares

Of raw love and hearth transmogrified into culinary excellence 

The Pulsedi is overwhelmingly beautiful 

I am simply overwhelmed 

The butteryness of the gravy 

The texture of the shred coconut 

The way the mango melts on my tongue

Unripened ones boiled in water and jaggery 

And I hope that the Gods are kind enough

That when I die, let it be after I have had my fill of this love

Let me have my last meal

In the plates of my home, scrubbed and shining 

After I have felt the spices that my grandmother kept in a tin box

My God,

Please be merciful 

If death must come at once

Please let it be now

Please let it be like this.

The spoken word on our beautiful generation

Do i feel strongly,
About anything?
Nothing, nothing nothing
Not even strongly about this word
Repeating, singing repeating
for the sake of a cause I can no longer remember,
No longer care about anything but December
Why? Why?
It’s my birthday, that’s why?
Am i arrogant, selfish, conceited, like a teenage girl
Don’t care again, again
This I ask eveytime
You ask me anything
I have embraced the modern pop culture
Of not caring, of not giving a damn
Of not giving any fucks, of ain’t having no jam
Don’t care, did I say it already?
Well who cares?
Apparently no one
We’re a mass movement of anarchy
Of lost history and geography
born from fear, capitalism and a state of democracy
Is it democracy?
The lines are all blurring,
even my speech is s l u r r i n g
What an excellent way to show
I don’t care,
I dont care
I’ll be on my way
Going along a road, that has been well formed by the million footsteps that preceded me.
The long road not taken is
overrated, overrated
Hop on this bandwagon
We’re all sheeps of the same fleece
Raze us, graze us
We eat the same weeds, the same grass
Fiber, moral fiber. what is that?
We understand money,
Bitcoins, dollars and cash,
blank cheques and pots of gold,
There’s nothing here
the soul long sold
Don’t care, don’t care
empty flesh, empty heart
This is our end, and this is our start
We’re walled minds for humanity’s sake
We roll, smoke, snort and bake
Rotting skin and pink entrails
daddy’s dying in metal jail
Who cares?
None of us do,
We’re the blossoming generation
of a dying world.

I traveled to my hometown.

The house was cleaned after he left 
Buckets of of water let out 
Swirling with dirt and soil 
A stick broom repeatedly swushed 
Against the flooded floor 
A bucket left at the gate 
So that the guests may wash their feet 
And as they leave, leave the essence 
Of the great old house 
Stuck on their clothes and their hair 
Clinging to the back of their necks and stuck under their sandles 
Behind.

The old clothes collected in a pile 
To be set aside like the memories soon would be 
Even the leftover piece 
Of an old biddi 
Struck on the wall 
The wall that was carefully built 
Brick by Brick 
To conceal the new cave in 
There now was 
Made by the loss of that person

I saw him as he left the house 
His eyes seemed to look ahead 
I found that I could only shed 
A few tears of farewell 
I was late 
To my grandfather’s funeral

Biddi: Cigarette

R.S.

At least someone loves Eva.

Eva keeps on crying
Darling don’t be sad
Is it your old daddy’s fault
Why are you so mad?

So you’ve heard a few things
About your old man
Dishonourable that he was
Bringing shame to the clan

And you now know all
Of the whispers they spoke
Womaniser and Drunk
An addict of coke

And you read all the letters
Your mother wrote and wept
How instead of her husband
She preferred to embrace death

Poor Eva is sobbing
She doesn’t know what to do
But don’t you worry my love
Death will always love you

– R.S.