Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Daipayan Nair writes


I am a staunch weirdo. I say what I feel. 
Are you the weirdo you should be? 
I show what I do and I do what others don't show. 
I am right at your face all the time 
and I represent those who are indifferent to themselves 
and awkwardly different for your normalcy,  
and I am prepared to love the battle or love yours produce.

Two pure sanities can rarely accept 
each other in this world 
as one does see the vast stretch of unclaimed land 
but one is never happily ready to give up, 
or even to share his own land.

I am always the unchanged and non-hypocritical 'nude guy' 
in your wildest dreams and your worst nightmares. 
But I am still a failed poet of my own poetry. 
I am the failed poet who lives it all 
and still succumbs to death twice a day, 
one by his own hand, one by the futility of the day. 
I keep telling you I am weird as I too turn cunning 
at hideous dawn and hideous dusks. 
I try to show I am in the middle of extremities 
and I fear my potential of swinging both ways. 
Borders are the most effected, borders are the most hated, 
borders are the most desired.

I am the failed poet who watches birth, 
growth, desire, love, explorations, 
sex and death rather than seeking it. 
I am the failed poet who likes to view frames 
as they are presented as who has seen 
the soul, who has seen the air without feeling it. 
And feelings are again skin centric  
as that which touches the mind has its passage through the skin.

As for seeking, I seek what birth has in it 
that makes it mature enough to lose out of desire, 
shatter out of love, scatter to explore in an earthen mating 
where one fuses with many either producing none 
or ignoring everyone.

I like blowing my brain out with my own bullets. 
I like blowing theirs if they want. 
I kill them who are happy to be killed. 
I empty my cartridge not to refill with faces but cartridges. 
I keep faces as happy targets, happily and sadly repeated. 
I wonder how many of you blow even with those of others 
as I have always seen contractual shooters, 
life soldiers, hunters.

I have rarely seen fused happiness with least explosions, 
I have rarely witnessed saints shooting saints, 
killing with a smile, looking at the kill that smiles.

I am the failed poet who has never thought beyond 
the little folded baby-child growing in its home under a bigger home. 
And the child has failed to remain a baby under an injected tendency. 
A failed poet, keeping his child bold, growing 
questioning and rebellious, claiming a new wild home. 
Am I not supposed to? Am I not supposed to explode myself 
into pieces of ‘me’ and call it absolutely normal? 
Is the one who's a traveller assigned a single destination? 
Does the resort, only knowing how to shelter, shelter only one? 
The folded child has been quiet, restless, mischievous, arrogant, 
all in calling the home dark, the wild home dark 
as darkness is nothing but an excuse to explore. 
I have been a failed poet as I have tried to know all and adamantly link all.

But I have seen them deny, the homes deny as they always have 
A few children are always dead before they can even stay 
and a few agreed to accept but only the face of a child, 
they could never give away.

And then, I have seen the wild home getting weirder at my face, 
as it did know how to fail and still flutter open, 
how to reject and still make believe the cosiness 
and even how to accept two or three at a time 
and thus, I have mated as friendly brothers, twins, duplets and triplets 
in a wildly, wordy and worldly home of the same.

I am the failed poet who thinks he has won 
when you fail in having constant moods, 
when you fail in lodging a curiosity for an identity, 
when you fail in believing your home can never be looted.

Children are only naughty but oppositions make him bad.

I am a failed poet as I am a weirdo. 
I am a weirdo as I am beyond the murderer and the murdered. 
Ejaculation was always on your attractive face 
without love or remorse 
though the wannabe followers have chosen safer dumping zones.

The failed poet has failed both in wins and failures 
to collect rawness from sane heaven and hell.

The weirdo has always won picturising greater extremities 
out of the extremes.

You can never figure me out as I am happy being both 
and you have never cared to see beyond a cloth 
and that appearances always attract moths. 
Do you still believe those embedded beauties make you beautiful?

I have been a combined failure as I have always believed, 
“Sexual attractiveness is the sanest human charity 
done to an odd lump of flesh” 
Or do you still boast of a soul, 
diplomatically invisible and free of wearing a cloth.

I have been a weirdo, a failed poet, a folded child of combined failure 
when it comes to describing you as a home, the other side, 
as my weirdness, as my failed poetry, as my poetry which will someday fail, 
as the more gifted tragedy they call ‘woman’.

I have never known and will never know how to praise you. 
I am wild enough in all forms to butcher you into two halves.

The one which I will savour will be the day.

 Image result for medieval torture painting

1 comment:

  1. The Spanish donkey (wooden horse, cavaletto squarciapalle, chevalet) was a torture device associated with the Spanish Inquisition (Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición) but not used exclusivly by them. While it was designed for women, accounts of male victims also exist. A naked victim was made to straddle a triangular wooden board with a sharp V-wedge with her legs suspended in the air, either hanging freely or bent backwards, and her arms would usually be tied behind her back to prevent any leverage from being applied to gain relief. They may have been pulled behind her back in a garrucha (strappado or "reverse hanging"), a form of torture in which the victim's hands were first tied behind her back and suspended in the air by means of a rope attached to wrists, thus dislocating both arms). If she was not required to support herself as an extra torture, a rope tied around her chest, neck, or hair would provide stabilization without supporting her weight. Weights were tied to her legs to cause more pain and discomfort or to provide stabilization in lieu of the rope. The device was unobstructive enough to allow most other tortures to be applied at the same time, including leaving a large enough area of the buttocks open for spanking, caning, and whipping. The sides could be roughened or fitted with spikes. The edge of the device was positioned between the slit of her labia to ensure clitoral stimulation, and the device could be raised or lowered to make her stand on her tiptoes or to rest her body weight on her genitals on the device. The torturer would add varying weights to her feet until finally the wedge sliced through her body. The Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition was established in 1478 by Ferdinand II and Isabella I to maintain Catholic orthodoxy, and replace the previous Inquisition, which had been under papal control since the late 12th century, and was not definitively abolished until 1834, though its period of greatest activity was between ca. 1480 and 1530; the last trial for being a crypto-Jew was in 1818. It charged at least 150,000 people with heresy and executed at leasy 3,000, although its reputation for sadism may have been exaggerted by 19th-century Protestant propagandists. Beginning in 1551 it published "Indexes" of prohibited books, including vernacular translations of the Bible, many of the great works of classical and Spanish literature, and the works of several religious writers who were later made Catholic saints. In addition to heresy, the Inquisition also policed morals, especially in cases of bigamy, a relatively frequent offense in a society that only permitted divorce under the most extreme circumstances; male bigamists were sentenced to five years service as an oarsman in a royal galley, and female bigamists were executed. Since the Inquisition had no budget of its own, its finances depended on the confiscation of goods of the denounced; as one victim protested, "if they do not burn they do not eat."
    Later, Americans adopted similar, though less lethal, devices. "Riding the rail" was used during the American colonial period and later: The victim was carried through town, often in conjunction with being tarred and feathered, and injuries to the crotch would ledad to the inability to walk without pain. During the Civil War, US guards employed "Morgan's mule" against Confederate prisoners, who were subjected to the treatment a couple hours a day for several days; the legs of a carpenter's saw horse were nailed to the scantling so one of the sharp edges was turned up, the naked prisoner was put upon it, and heavy weights were fastened to his feet; many victims were crippled for life.


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