People, places and things
have become things we collect
things replace people
and it has the wrong effect
things, places, things
has the wrong ring
- its clearly incorrect -
people aren't objects despite our dialect
nor merely nouns now to be subject
at least I object
we're both Proper and imperfect
both Collective and dissected
both Abstracted and connected
More than nouns we are the now
thats what I think anyhow

I'll take you to places that you never ever been before.

In my memories,
on places we used to go to --
museum walls and cinema seats
cafe cups and restaurant platters
bus windows and train stations
hotel beds and motel sheets
motorcycle rides and fabulous bridges
condo lifts  and bedroom whispers
kitchen convos and shower sexes
midnight boat rides and stolen kisses

In my heart and mind you live, and
I hope, in time, you'll leave.

"There's something about traveling to places, you know," you said.
You just got back from some country in the East to celebrate New Years
with relatives from home. You were two days too late, due to a delayed
flight you complained so much about as soon as you landed. You hugged
me, I pecked you on the cheek, and then we sat down.

"It's the culture, the diversity of each place, and oh God," you continued.
"The languages—I've learned so many different words—that's what I love
most!"

You rambled on and on all throughout as the night went on, stopping in
between stories to swallow the food you took in and drink the beverages
you ordered. I smiled and laughed as you went on with your experiences
while you were away.

The time read 12:06 in the morning, but that didn't stop you from talking
eight months worth of stories since you left. Eventually, you did stop, and
that's when I realized how long I smiled as I stared at you. Your eyes, and
how they shine a streak of gold because of the chandelier atop our table.

You looked beautiful that night, the same way you did during the time
when we stayed out late at night to look at the stars and watch them disappear
as the sun rises. Well, you looked at the stars and anticipated the sunrise;
I looked at you then.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" you ask and then you followed it with
a chuckle, and I was reverted back to reality. You smiled at me (God knows how
long, and how I didn't want it to stop), but moments later, your radiant smile
turned to a frown I was hoping I never had to see. You wiped your lips, stood up,
and got your things.

You looked at me with your eyes, the same eyes that closed and turned away back
then; the same eyes that decided to leave.

"It's never going to happen again," you shook your head. "I'm sorry."

And then you left.

—————————————————————————————————

I followed her outside, called out for her name, and then took her hand. She turned
and looked at me, and that was when I knew I was ******* as soon as I decided to
tell her what I wanted to say ever since she came back.

"You learned a lot of different and new words, but you never learned to say I love you back."

She is just going.. going places.
She is leaving without any traces.
She is aimlessly travelling in search for something.
Like a vagabond, she is just wandering.
Try not to stop her, because she is actually falling.
Falling in love.

I am unlovable.
Easily broken
like the glass that shattered
long before I even touched it.
I am war-
too volatile to handle,
too unpredictable to wait for
so I told you to run,
take nothing with you
(except for regret)
for it will only slow you down
and I don’t have time to warn you twice.

Why would you choose to stay?

Years later
I’m still sitting in my aloneness
in a home built out of paper mache and sweat
anger and hate weighing comfortably in my aching belly-
I am only vengeful towards my body,
and it knows that.

I spit fires from my tongue,
setting borders alight
because unbounded
is the only way that I’ll have you Love-

You know just how it is that I like my coffee.

Bloodied walls
and broken hands,
I’ve been building this staircase for a while now.

…I’m just looking to ask god why…

You asked me if I was ready
and I told you that my pain wasn't done baking yet
I am still dancing with the shadows of my demons-
I am open wounds that refuse to heal.

I want to feel your breath on my skin
but I am afraid of how it deeply it will scar
because every time you touch me,
I bleed.

My lungs started collecting dust
on a shelf somewhere:-
collapsed from the heaviness of mistrust
and almost apologies-
Yes, my mother did warn me about men
that creep in and out women’s chests at night.

So go on and make a home out of her,
I’m no use to you like this.
I am bloodshed.
I am war.
Too volatile too handle,
and too unpredictable to wait for.
My pain isn’t done baking yet,
but I will wait by the waters until it does.

I am alright in my own solitude…

I’ll make poetry out it.


By: Lulwama Kuto Mulalu

Possible,
Water,
Rain like mud sticking to your flabby boots,

Drift closer,
The beam of a candle,
Melts my fluorescent membrane,

Kappa,
Gamma Gamma,
Zeta, Theta,
Delta 2 Minor,
We have Control,

The opening is cut,
Like vintage dawns,

fiestivo, rex,
Domus,
Sum,

Forget any retrieval,
Seldom Come,
Seldom Reach you,

I went there again today,
The plants I taught my-
Third standard lessons,
Tiny rooms with choir mats
And a long verandah that looked
Almost like a dream
My mother wove,
They've all remained the same,
Without alterations.
I walked the backyard with my aunt,
The new lotus pond and
Her kitchen garden
The temple that overlooked
The huge mango tree
Has become affectionate remains
Of an off-track history.
Bartered land and
English medicines,
A new plastic tap,
A European closet
And few glass plates their-
Souvenirs.
I remember the days,
The sleepless summers
They collected mangoes under
Persian torch lights,
The occasional scooters
And auto-rickshaws
That scated the narrow orange road
And the bubbles I made
With kids next door
From gums of little plants.
I have outgrown those images
But nostalgia is a nice feeling.