Photo by Patryk Grądys on Unsplash
poem: time travel is cruel & kind
you’re me. i’m not
one but so many.
you do not walk.
empty and rootless i drift. i’m
you. as everyone digs out caste histories and thump their chests and thighs you drift and i turn at right angles. time’s not linear but parallel. adrift i turn left right left you turn at left angles.
cyclone of light or what, i say
caste histories emphasize on the royal lineages of the dominant castes. a caste isn’t a race. தலையே வலிக்காத தறுதலைகளுண்டோ. human race is an amalgam of many ethnicities. a varna is an amalgam of tens and tens of castes/jatis. a caste is an amalgam of tens of tribes. the enslaved ancient adivasis and adidravidas teach the bedwetting pre-brahminist genocidal aryan wet-dreamers how to hold it to last at least a minute. and then, lo and behold, the well-dwelling brahminists invent varnas first and then divide a race into jatis and sub-jatis. எச்சாதியினரின் குஞ்சாமணியும் பொன்குஞ்சன்று. the upper layer of the brahminist hell has been leased out indefinitely to the dominant shudras whence trampling on dalits and marginalized sudras they access the lower layer of the brahminist savarna heaven. தலையே சுற்றாத தறுதலைகளுமுண்டோ. the unceasing narrative from the lower layer of the brahminist avarna hell can be witnessed by stepping in the fields of paddy harvested by dalits and by stepping down the manholes.
and you say cyclone of liteness elicits the flight of diverse universal particles.
time travel is cruel
for time swallows me. you see
matriarchies. something lies
beyond vile patriarchies.
time travel is cruel and kind
for time swallows you. i see
patriarchies. something lies
beyond vile royal patriarchies.
cyclone of heftness unites collapsing polyversal particles.
caste histories emphasize on the royal lineages of the dominant shudra castes, the conductors of the chamber of horrors, under the auspices of the brahminists, the inventors and supervisors of the chamber of horrors called sanatana dharma.
with every opening of an angle, up here, down there, everywhere
it becomes very hard to shut out the incoming
inevitable cyheft and cylite waves of many shapes from 321 AcE.
something lies beyond caste histories and something lies beyond royal lineages.
witnessing the massacres of ancient adivasis, at one angle in the valleys, you’re horrified that matriarchies can be as vile as patriarchies. something lies beyond royal matriarchies.
time travel is kind for time swallows me up from the past and throws you up to the future.
in the forest and the mountain there’s fluid solid fluidity
and there’s solid fluid solidarity. time travel is cruel and kind for time swallows you up in the valley and throws me up the mountain.
you’re a buddhist and i’m an ambedkarite. i’m an anarchist and you’re a marxist.
you say spinoza stole from buddha and i say buddha stole from ancient materialists.
pasts and futures lie, i say, not so much in the distance
as parallel. gHoStS GhOsTs, you say, thus screaming atoms flee
witnessing us at geodesic intersections.
time travel sucks me from the mouth of the mounting forest
and pins you down to the belly of the valleyed mountain.
at the heart of the mounting forest of valleyed mountain lie sleepy cyclonic heftlites.
cylites wielding stilettos clone polyprose and forge polyverse
and in polyvercities
cyhefts wielding styluses clone universe and forge uniprose.
as cyhefts unite.
once united cylites
collapse again. once
again cyhefts unite
united cylites collapse
something lies beyond caste histories. i learn, at another angle, that adivasis have nothing to learn from the brahminists. adivasis have nothing much to learn from us bahujan dravidians either for it’s us who have something to learn from them.
something intangible that might after all prove to be tangible
and not everything
if you want something to sink in, says the munda molding a pot, be brief.
an angle opens me up and long-winded we say we’ll try to be
as you sink in. there isn’t a single
caste or race, says harappa building a hut,
it’s either sketched in his dna
or the data in his head has it that
he put his proverbial tongue out
and turn into a mandog at the sight
of a well-hipped, red-skinned bitchick.
in the land enclosed by laterite forest where
sun and rain often beat down at once on what’s
black and blue and green and brown and whatnot
perfused red is the ideal skin tone like persistent
black used to in fact fabled to be way way back when.
mandog would scale up the balcony of she who’d been
brought up by unsought attentions and slights
to be dragged down by the hands belonging
to mankite who’d pelt pebbles at mandog
or rough him up if he could catch him.
mankite wouldn’t stay long on the ground
or in the little space time has given him
as she who put a knot around his torso
and turned him into a mankite would
tug at the string in her grip if he isn’t
seen up and within her suspicious sight.
she with the string would fly mankite
high up haunted palmyras and by flying foxes
so close to be entangled in the lighting rod
high up the church tower towing this way and that
high and low and far away and far far away
if she were to sext her inflamed ex-flame.
through the hidden grey hole at the neck of
the headless palmyra mankite would
thrust his head in feeling the bushy press of
eggshells and derelict owl nest to be after
as well the mandogs in the form of either her
ex-flame or his slimy non-mustachioed self.
to wonder who first existed between
mankite and mandog is to veer off
into the province of alice universe
and to ignore the intermittent inadvertent
howls of mankite and to forget the skill-sets
of the hung-up mankitemaker and to ignore
the fairly anxious grandmother downstairs.
Ahimaz Rajessh (@ahimaaz) has been published recently with Velivada, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, BEST BUDS! Collective, RIC Journal, Minor Literature[s], Marlskarx, Glass, Elephants Never, Burning House Press, Big Echo: Critical SF, Paint Bucket and Speculative 66. He lives in the Indian Subcontinent.
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