ASHOK RAJAMANI

pulitzer prize-luminary commended author

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    Copyright @ 2015-2021 Ashok Rajamani. All Rights Reserved.

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    PUBLISHED POEMS

    ON SLUTS, VULGAR DARLINGS, AND INDIA

    SHOULD THE BETTER SING, IF THE BEDWETTER COULD


    **published in alternative reel**

    **published in the beatnik**

    **published in clutching at straws poetry journal**

    **published in mad swirl poetry**

    **published in new wave vomit literary journal**

     

     

    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

     

     

    HE WAS THE DRUNKEN GEISHA WHO FOUND THE GOLDEN DIAMOND

     

     

    **published in pens on fire**

    **published in barnwood: international poetry magazine

     


    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
    into
    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,
    visible
    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

     

    **published in the beatnik*

    **published in the montucky review**

     

     

    sister jaleesa
    bride of christ

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

    sister jaleesa
    like veronica wipe his

    head
    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
    do
    you
    part

     

     

    WHITE MEN CAN'T JUMP, ER,
    TIE A SARI

     

    **published in armageddon buffet**

    **published in amphibi.us**

     



    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

    WHEN THE SLUT STRIPPED

     

    published in pif magazine

    published in red river review

     

    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

     

    published in alternative reel

     

    what is glowing
    that sari
    what sari
    was knotted
    crumpled
    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

     

    published in pens on fire

    published in voices on the wind poetry journal

     

    suffering/​
    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

     

     

     

    STAGE FRIGHT

     

    **published in three line poetry**

     

    nine mile stage
    scorches and burns
    piano remains so pain returns

     

     

     

     

    IN INDIA SOAKED IN SWEAT

     

    **published in bewildering stories literary journal**

     


    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
    until
    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.