Paritosh | January 11, 2014
Blog Default Image



Raindrops rest on golden waves,

She tugs and pulls with an ivory comb.

Coffee brews in the kitchen,

She hums an old Celtic tune.


Curtains drenched in warm orange light,

The oak trees sigh on 9th Avenue.

She plucks a rhododendron from the forest,

She hums an old jhyāurey tune.





It’s here I caught

A small mouth bass

And let it go.

It’s here I devoured

The venom from her hands,

It’s here I kissed a 100 more.

It’s here the wind

Told me stories

And the barren streets

Became my library.

It’s here I found LC

Out on the county road.

It’s here I broke a heart,

It’s here I almost went mad

And came out scarred and beautiful-

Only to realize that madmen

Are the most lucid reporters

On the human condition.

Raw and unapologetic,

They find order in chaos,

Poetry in piss.

They alone understand it.

It’s here I learnt to

To trust the night

With my secrets.

It’s here I drank

A mighty voluptuous river.

Its here I stole a star.

And I swear I’d like it too

But my balls are freezing,

And the car won’t start.

You were right, Charlie.





12:00 AM

The Master spins a dusty tune,

From the lost pages of Lorca’s book.

The violin cuts like a razor blade,

My solitary waltz in a Viennese cage.


1:00 AM

Wide hips

And plastic smiles,

North Country

Is all right.


3:00 AM

Desire’s arrow






I’m looking for some glue.





I was seeking Inspiration.

She cost me 20 bucks

And a couple of quarters.

The band was on break

And nobody missed them

(They were trying to play Jazz).

A woman called me over,

Her arm in a cast

Covered with sonnets.

She was a boxer, she said.

The clock on the wall

Was a work of Art.

The needle-thin hand sailed

Effortlessly over an emerald lagoon

Brushing against the soft gilded edges

Without a sound.

This clock has character.

Those that butcher the seconds

Massacre the minutes

And murder the hours

With a tuneless

Chop, Chop, Chop

Are the worst.

Especially when there is

Nowhere to go.

What do you think?

I asked the woman

With the broken hand.





Caramel nipples rub against

Foggy window.

Toothless man in coffee-shop

Sucks on opaque straw.

It’s the perfect Amerikan morning.

I was told to start out

Bright and happy with

Scrambled eggs,

Bacon and pancakes.

Nibble, nibble.



 To The Lady With A Blue Scarf


I met an apsara at the tavern last night. She was wearing a blue scarf and a cinnamon smile. Who wove the garland? I inquired. A silk sash with Himalayan roses. Comes from the valley I’m sure. No, Shah Jahan crafted it for Mumtaz, she chimed. Ah, Mughal roses. Heavenly petals dancing in the broken stage of a weary tavern. Holy roses strewn across the barroom floor.


Pennsylvania is so cold. The beer tastes like urine and the women don’t care for emaciated expressions dripping from a poor foreign tongue. Poetry. What is poetry? Words borne out of Hunger. Manna for a starving soul. But she snatched me from the Shadows. She saved me from certain death. So I carved her a portrait of another fallen angel. Marissa N. She slipped my petition into a black leather garden, mercilessly crushed between a burgundy comb, lipstick, mascara and other heavy secrets.


-Where are you from?

-Around the corner.

-What do you do?

-I meditate on curves.

-Sing me a gypsy prayer then.

-Alas, I have none.

I passed her the sapphire raincoat the master created many moons ago.

-Will you have it? I am but a messenger.

I tugged on her garland.

-I’m a starving poet but I wasn’t always this ugly. May I kiss your hand?

She taunted me with a tragic ballad. It was windy outside. Another cigarette, another night, a smoky ladder melting in the empty ruins of a cold fish sky.

-You don’t look too good, prince.

-I slipped and fell. The chair was too high.

-Where do you hail from?

-Same place as you.

-You don’t look good.

-But I have my music. Will you pass this on?

-How will I know?

-You’ll find Her there, casting rose-petal darts into the forlorn mirror.


-To give men Hope.


I cut a deal with the frozen pavement. Just get me home and I will sing you a song. I will retrieve the six-stringed kithara from the wooden casket. I will break the silence tonight. I negotiated my way downhill. I weaved a wreath of tears for Beauty on the way home. Warm tears on a November night. Saline fluid for the Angel sporting a sendal necktie.


(Excerpts from a collection of poems)

2 Responses to “PYGMY POSSUM PISS”

  1. prismprasm says:

    This is some really good stuff. Thanks for sharing.

  2. earthlydude says:

    Beautiful work! Would definitely like to read more from Paritosh.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *