ANOTHER ORDINARY DAY SUBHANKAR DAS

TEN PAGES PRESS

ANOTHER ORDINARY DAY by Subhankar Das © 2011 Ten Pages Press All rights revert to author upon publication http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com

A city all alone

These days I do not feel like going out of my house anymore. I am bored with all those walks. These days I love to have a cup of coffee all alone. This is another city where no one knows me. I also do not know anyone here. I was so surprised to see my father jerking off in his sleep. Surprise was still alive at that point of time so long ago when in our mother’s school we were trained every day to grow up as a stupid man.

Dream let the phone ring i am not getting up let the sun burn my legs i am not pulling the shades down she has left her soft kiss on my lips before she went out but I slept trying hard to finish this dream

Hospital Doors The slaughterhouse is full they won’t take another animal in Please come next week with your insurance papers the phone said A week comes as a gift A smile escaped from me before I could regain my composure Even getting killed is so costly these days

Another ordinary day I was coming up the stairway after buying a pack of cigarettes. She heard me and came out of her flat and we started to kiss and hug at the landing while her husband took bath. She finished her caress by planting a kiss on my pecker and it felt good. I bent down to return the favor kissing her nipples in return or where it supposed to be my best guess with all her clothes on. And she kind of pressed it forward. At that moment her front door banged shut Shit Now she has to press the buzzer to get inside. I lighted a cigarette and climbed further up for my apartment door where my wife was still sleeping with her boyfriend

and it was almost 9 in the morning.

The Words

They were tearing down my paper cloth as I lay gazing at the big big lights dead. I have left my flip-flops and nickel blues at the gate with all the rings and wrist chain to accompany my glasses. This must be the death shower when you leave everything outside even your ego to play with your self pity. Without my power glasses the outside world as it is all unreal even the lights become soft sentimental love.

Please give me the words, give me the words.

Everything moved ever so slow so slow even the needle pecking in and out pushed into my skin searching, searching for the lost veins.

Are your tooth all real? I touched my mouth with my right hand which was still free. Yes I think so. Do you have a loose one? No. Is this some kind of a joke, I thought. I was supposed to have a gallbladder surgery. The misery ended as they pushed some drug and everything became more moist and I breathed deep and my body switched my vision off.

It is so boring to wait outside like this she said, as they yanked my gallbladder out piece by piece. Yes they should put up a giant screen outside, to share the thrill with crackers and coffee.

The dark fortnight of a lunar month 1

I know nothing about the sharpness of a peacock, just another harmless lecher just like ordinary people they do not have any passion for dancing. If they get good food a good fuck they dance sometimes, suddenly accidentally. Whether they dance when it rains remains untested.

The dark fortnight of a lunar month 2

Feeling my presence a house-lizard shoots away from one corner of the wall of my bathroom to the other. But I do not have a peacock tail as my headgear like Krishna.

This must be a stray visiting house-lizard who just dropped in.

getting late

I hate this telephone ringing in the morning, either it is some agents calling for repayments of unpaid bills or news of some little man jumping out of the window.

I was waiting for the tube when this girl comes up and asks me what time it was. The train was running late by 5 minutes. I am getting so late she said and walked away towards a huge standing fan. Her hair flying dancing and I could hear the rumbling

of the train approaching. When it was a few yards away from us she jumped trying to reach for the third rail. The train screeched to a halt but by then it was too late. I came out of the station slowly. It will take at least a hour before everything becomes normal again

Waiting for the lights to go green

I live in a place where you can rent a baby by the hour and pinch their asses to make them howl as you approach the cars for alms stuck on the crossroads and waiting for the lights to go green.

I live in a place where this poet calls up in the morning and starts complaining about my poem where I expressed my surprise to see my father jerking off in his sleep. Must be another one from the league who burns incense sticks in front of Goddess Kali and Marx hanging side by side on the wall.

I live in a place where the politicians are thinking to give the place a facelift and turn it to London.

And we at the roadside tea stalls with local hooch mixed with orange juice to cut down the foul smell testing like champagne drinking it all up to help us through the prayer in front of all these living legends.

BIOGRAPHY

Subhankar Das is a writer, publisher and film producer living in Kolkata, India. He has published fourteen collections of poetry in Bangla though his most recent collection The Streets, the Bubbles of Grass, is published in English by his arts collective, Graffiti Kolkata. His work has appeared extensively in print and online which includes: Danse Macabre, Graffiti Kolkata Broadside, Mad Swirl, Carcinogenic Poetry, La Stanza Di Nightingale, Caper Literary Journal, Leaf Garden, Camel Saloon, Guerilla Pamphlets, Horror Sleaze Trash, Full of Crow, Negative Suck, Kavita Campus, Prathamoto etc. He has translated Allen Ginsberg’s Howl into Bangla and is the editor of the stark electric space..., an anthology of international experimental writing. He has a new book forthcoming from Virgogray Press, USA. He has produced six short films and owns a bookstore.