Volume One, Issue 3

Rony Nair

Juwairiya 3

escape artists ride with outsize plans,
hijack coach stages; rob sperm banks.
saints in reinvention pee beer into drains,
putrid barons approve sainthood games.
there's reach and retch as we go down under,
crushing tongues, biting chins,
snipping at stains below decorous heads,
coming up for air-we annexed sofa heads;
faces un-balance radio tower ledges,
searching for cadaver; the meat all spare,
moans ringing on; a clarion call.
voiced labors cease-dictating unease.
your "wifely" face comes on -a farewell disease.

Reinventing Wheels

Accusatory affronts miss out
on fingerprints scarring t-shirts,
wrapped around vague bends resembling
pylons, in the head.

Where we once held each other so tight,
that we exchanged chins.

Your bites remain imprinted in faces grained and greyed,
headrests and grey sofas;
bequeathed, bestowed.
aureoles remain, waiting;
to be jettisoned,
through long closed doors.

We were displaced in the giving.
withdrawn in second thoughts about living and piety;
images reinvented like calling cards.
re-reimagined in groups,
of failed house wives setting out to conquer the equinox,
Round the periphery.

Clearing up worlds in a stroke
Rinsed with stored up passion.
amniotic fluid sprays over the latest victims and rebukes,
latest expletives fill up blanked out faces of the latest group of victims,
Corralled into shelters and homes.

those secrets and lies are both the same,
two penny half-truths complete the game.
false-hoods complement a reinvented prism;
a new mother superior. airbrushed. Dreamlike; walking through the haze.

convergent disciples go out and paint walls in graffiti;
awaiting the next round of instructor led piety.

You wait for a year to call her, and feel the contours of her tone!

"Wanna fuck somebody? Find somebody else."


Hand over your feelings for six pence a rhyme;
to three penny moralists who make more than CEO's a night.

take pity and fetch your innards,
off the bateaux of discarded sands,
where you retch, and carry through.

the towns marooned in flickers of light staying afloat,
startle your feigned grimace, with boredom.

staid dryness awash under your insides.

somewhere in twin time zones we meet and we spit,
into each other’s noses.

before we thumb a snuck and meander, separate.
clarions sound in hazes at 4. and imperfect nipples cohere like pressure cooker vanes.

ambulances race each other all night, sailors vanish down ports of haste.

Neither will ever see each other again.

and somewhere in the assembly line of cubicles,
a solitary snore muffles three assembly line spasms of release.
if there's time the next customer could still embed himself.
Before Sunrise. Beyond dissolution.

Rony Nair: "I have been a worshiper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as I could think. They have been the shadows of my life.

"My work has previously appeared in and been accepted by Chiron Review, Semaphore, Mindless Muse, Yellow Chair Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Ogazine, Two Words For, New Asian Writing, Yellow Press Review, YGDRASIL journal, Sonic Boom, 1947, and others. I was a published columnist with the Indian Express and am also a photographer about to hold my first major exhibition. I have been profiled by the Economic Times of Delhi and have also written for them. V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald are influences on my life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes are my personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book I would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts!"

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