Ankit Damani, 7 january 2015
I once had a birthmark on my left shoulder.
A baby screaming in agony bore this mark,
the result of an injection
which was meant to protect
my helpless body from infection.
From danger.
A neat little sliver of protrusion
surrounded by a crater,
the moat to my microcastle.
It once proudly stood alone,
a landmark against impurity.
My forefinger would sometimes
drift off towards it and circle cautiously,
perhaps its feeble attempt at time travel,
taking me to my days of perfection,
of honeydew and home movies.
I would once again feel familiar fingers
that ran over the lonely guardian,
as they washed my flawless skin,
fingers kneading all along
those puny yellow-brown arms.
I may still have the mark today, but I can't be sure.
My forefinger doesn’t drift anymore.
It wouldn’t dare to navigate around the
swarm of pustules, boils, cysts
that now stand tall, surrounding the terrified knoll.
The moat rendered hopeless.
Furious volcanoes, land mines
so eager to burst forth from
this toxic, etherized land,
pulsating like a horde of smartphones
buzzing in sync to form an earthquake.
Nothing could stop them but goddamn,
do they infuriate the perfect child in my dreams
who glares at me scornfully, every night.
My eyes cannot meet his.
Ankit Damani, 7 may 2012
All of the phonies are
licking your flesh away
but you find no reason
to tell them a thing these days.
nothing will kill you
but I can’t believe you think
nothing will hurt you either.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore.
That icy bruise,
wrapped repeatedly with clay and powder,
refusing to budge, stubborn. It thickly veils
the blackness from me but I forget the joys of
pretending. Each string is slowly plucked until
a form of glorious resonance is reached.
Yes, a resonance of hatred and
filth that blocks all else and speaks in red words.
And it winds, backward and forward.
Like a pendulum of blades,
slashing away into the air,
moving closer with every second
Until
metal meets skin
and the crescendo of our sonata
sprouts out hawks, light
and the elusive stream of
white rivers.
Ankit Damani, 25 december 2011
the flawless wrinkles
settle gently now.
Creases of water
force themselves
upon the murky
minds of infants.
The exteriors delve
into sinuous stains
of plasma, scattering
e v e r y w h e r e
to take
over the clear veracity. Gasps of air
interrupt the silence;
whispers of death.
Limbs
stop jolting.
Scarlet sins flood her
eyes.
The wrinkles do
not return.
A spurt of
tranquility.
The mother
stares at her
creation with
such joyous
approval.
Ankit Damani, 25 december 2011
insomnia
white sparks surround my eyes now
addictions that will not leave anytime
soon
a second of sleep and it’s over, a mirage
nothing more
back to work where the devils must have
their share
of my flesh before it rots and ceases to
envelop my bones like
a warm blanket on a homeless man
droplets of creation are hurled out by
screaming eyeballs
they solidify and create the exterior
that I go on with, in social killing
fields.
yet I find myself wondering every day
wondering of other worlds
wondering if a single
moment not governed
by man will ever exist
wondering when to
release the secret.
and then it begins again:
like having an angelic melody
repeated over and over
for years
the first few days will pass on.
the efforts
to maintain sanity will only
start
to emerge after you realize
that everything
you loved
has been disintegrated into
incessant repetition and monotony
something that is inexplicable
something that is
beautifully convoluted
and yet so dangerous that
a touch will kill anyone. anyone but me,
who wears it
as a cloak
every moment of my life.
superiority
in its crudest form
steel shoulders cover me in a blanket of
apathy
as paper faces rest on each pair,
grinning with
evergreen agony, waiting to strike
those that have been,
all their lives,
as if all the previous beatings
were meant to dampen the effect
of this next one.
and they do, in a way.
at least their expression seems
worn out, and the flowing
ooze of red fury seems
like it knows what path to take,
like its tributaries and deltas
have been sketched out
in permanent ink before.
everything begins in
intricate performances,
displayed with zest.
the illusion is all that keeps me
from erupting.
Ankit Damani, 25 december 2011
good night
Blends of alchemy
linger with a certain
anxiety.
Time to present the void
with exquisite elegance
and make believe that
we matter.
The magic’s wearing off now,
great tyrants empower
our hope.
Corporations
project humanity
and our utopia
scares the
dread away.
Then it begins:
breathtaking transformations ensue,
monsters reveal our lunacy.
Flowers engulf nations
in single gulps
and oceans freeze
the blood away
in an instant.
Now the wasteland
gapes far and wide.
but we still
manage to find
room for the
massive strength
to imagine.
We will never
realize.
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