Ashok Rajamani



reader talk
"words, brewed and unbrewed."
flash fiction
"stories, thumb-sized."
"why on earth would a brown american boy want to be an all-american star?"
"Salman Rushdie uncovers the dream that imprisons."
"How a Drag King and the Carnival Stole the Show in the World's Greatest Poem."

when the slut stripped

When he, the slut, stripped nude
he cried out, "Marry me, Marry me"
to no one in particular/​​
later that night on TV after he saw her/​​
after he saw Beyonce sing of single ladies/​​
that night like any flaming man, like any burning man/​​
who yearned to wear a white wedding dress/​​
he looked in the mirror and sang not cried/​​
draping himself with the white tablecloth on his kitchen table

sari nine yards

what is glowing
that sari
what sari
was knotted
dripping with silk
nipply and breastly
noserings abouncing
jiggles her
feetie those anklets
of diamonds
shiny embroidered
that sari
that silk
and those diamonds

my vulgar darling

she's suffering/​
as light shines before her flesh/​
has danced its last dance/​​ and lived its last life/​
didn't live like thisshe used to dance and dance/​
without the fear or without the sorrow/​
or without the suffering/​
or without the need

how that mumbai woman enjoys those samosas

there she was
dancing in
the red brick open air kitchen
facing the veranda
laughing and giggling

like a crazed
and lonely spinster playing with pets
one tiny fan whirled slowly above her as she inhaled
the sticky moist mumbai air
scents kicked in one by one

chilli coriander ginger
all blended seamlessly to create her
altered climate
atmosphere of irresistible flavor

when her mission was completed

she brought her platter
of freshly-cooked freshly-fried samosas to the table

they began eating what she presumably considered
to be miniature dumplings of ecstasy

all she had been dancing
and laughing manically as she constructed them
there were few words spoken as her mouth was full

her creations
This is my daily snack she yelled

nobody understood

how this could be how she could eat her fried samosas daily
and still maintain her skinny figure
with her body

somehow she must have exercised daily
but they could not
imagine her voluntarily
a sweat
was it classic
binge and purge

no they assumed forcing herself
to gag would take too much effort

good genetics

lucky bitch

after the meal was completed in the spicy air
of that spiced room she removed the dishes herself
barely pausing at the kitchen sink she said
she had to go to the bathroom

when they heard

the wretching
the toilet flushing
the sink spraying

her foolish drooling as she came out smiling
they knew why she remained thin
and wondered

when the next meal would be served

published poems: on sluts, jesus, vulgar darlings, and india

"One of my favorite online poets."

-- Mimi Ferebee, Editor-In-Chief, Red Ochre Press

should the bedwetter sing,
if the bedwetter could

for the bedwetter singy
the steamed
fucking songs
and chordsy
his fucking throat
was it weekly
no he said screwing himself
to wretch music
would be too much
like cumming cummy goo
but it was the music
it was always about the music


When Kumar the Drunken Geisha,
clumsily holding his ornate bottle of bourbon,
lifted his head back up and momentarily caught sight
of Akash’s near-perfect ebony eyes,
he became flustered and quickly looked down again, transforming his outfit
of a liquor-stained white tee
a lipstick-stained Kyoto kimono.
Akash got up to use the loo, and as he walked down

the marble hall, Kumar continued studying him.
That was when he noticed
the gorgeous artwork on this artwork himself:
one tattoo of a huge yellow diamond on Akash’s left arm,
through his tee-shirt.
Kumar didn’t know if, at that moment,
it was the drink in him that made his mouth drool
Or if it was the drink in him
that made his throat burn dry

drink his flesh

sister jaleesa
bride of christ

you kiss his
cross you drink
his flesh and eat
his blood

sister jaleesa
like veronica wipe his

and know your
life is love his love

is marriage
until death
peter no mistress
he betrays and you
three times feel death

more death
til death

in india, soaked in sweat

On the wet August summer bed sheet soaked in sweat and sex
On that first hot sticky night in bed together in Mumbai
he took Leenu in the bedroom
grunts/​​​ substituted conversation
she bit her lip and shut her eyes
the one​
the one​
the one
the one and a half minutes were over
in that sticky summertime sheet​
moon outside the window:
this Mumbai moon, so bright, so big, so bold
was a giant eyeball peeking at a Gorilla Brahmin
pound his virgin bride.
after he had finished his goal
and after he had fallen asleep
in a liquid gale of deep, intense snoring --
Leenu was able to make out
the small blood-stains on her drenched bed sheet
she looked up at the ceiling
mortified that this painful ordeal
was what the entire world thought was so great.


So if there didn't exist an India
with saris and curries and masala and bollywood

and monsoons and chutneys and samosas
and every other fucking shitty cliche
the white man uses
would the sand niggers of the world be sad or laugh
like sacred cows do?

of course not!
for sand niggers want their masters to be happy

and the white man is happy when the brown man is reduced to catchphrase cunnilingus
sari masala bollywood chutney monsoon samosa curry

good words say the white man
when dothead is fucking motherfucking unavailable

stage fright

nine mile stage
scorches and burns
piano remains so pain returns