A Little History of Celluloid

Spoken in
the tongue
of light,
your cry
scratches
on the skin
of my
emulsion...

A bright scar
engraved on the
grains of my soul.

Brittle, like leader
on a spool...light is just
an invitation to darkness.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (18/9/2014)

Denial

The night yearns.

An eager lover's 

nervous sweat, 

dripping, counting

hours, to forget…

When the morning

comes, the light

will wash it away.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (21st May, 2014)

Burial

Iv'e buried 

my friends, 

under dead ends,

left all my bridges burnt.

Accusing eyes 

and lonesome 

sighs mock 

everything that I've learnt.

My mortality stares me,

in my face, I didn't know

it would look like this.

A familiar smell, a little

homely now, a rather

pedestrian abyss.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (March 12th, 2014)

Slow Death

A lone leaf flutters on 

the withered branches

of my mind…

A  broken memory of 

the withered bark 

that's left behind.

The rotting wood's a reminder 

of what could have been…

If not for time and its 

wretched burials in between.

The tree now, a hollow 

coffin does become…

a rubble of time and

its wretched sum.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (March 11th, 2014)

Autopsy

My time is

not my own,

my flesh divided

now cold like stone.

Sticky, rigid under

the coroner's gaze,

A mere memory

of my past days.

And as I sit here,

on a steel slab,

scalpel kissing 

my skin and flab…

I cannot help but wonder how,

A person then, is just a body now.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (March 10th, 2014)

Familia

Its engines turn

and fearfully twist, 

Raking the insides 

of my throat, a fist…

Pain of salvation, 

the retch. Memories 

like bones on a rack

they stretch. Its gears 

diligently creak and sweat,

a mechanical death 

and bodily yet.

Its giant pistons,they bathe

me in guilt. Slow death, soul

rot, in the house my father built.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (March 9th, 2014)

They Did Not Come Here to Heal

They did not

come here to heal,

Make no mistake

my friend, the ballot

in your hands is

not a bullet. Not even

bullets can pierce

their armour, for 

they rule with fear

as we roll in 

our self-dug graves.

They have found

three hundred and

seventy seven ways to

fuck us over...father,

mother, brother, son,

sister, uncle,

nothing matters

for we are all sick

and there is no 

pill to kill

our pain.

They did not 

come here to heal.

They did not 

come hear to heal,

or hear appeals

my friend...we are

just worker ants,

marching in our

invisible striped pants.

They are not sorry 

for Sori or Irom

and Kashmir's

just cash, don't be rash,

it doesn't matter if you

prefer a feast of 

friends to their 

giant family.

Your roof is held to 

ransom and you

thank them, though 

your world is broken and

Modi-fied,they did not 

come here to heal.

So nine to five we

work and sing anthems,

oh so grateful,

that our slave masters

have not snatched the bread 

from our mouths (till now).

Anyhow,Hashmi's fears 

are unfounded,and you can 

sleep easy on your bed

for there is no dream 

in your head left to

die my friend, this is the end.

They did not come here to heal.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (December 12th, 2013)