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.