parsimonic insomnia


my heritage has been clipped
like easily as a declawed animal’s
and the word that substitutes it
can be called in short “engaging with foolish gossip and foolery.”
actually can be related to, kutti is too close to kuttnami
there is a pride in districts and not city unless district-divided city
like a monopoly engine, car, hat, shoe —
nicely laid out as a game piece and nothing more. —

my language is both foreign and natural
like a foreign language is also natural and obscured
but proficiency cannot only be tested on how a tongue wags
or how the wages of nationalism is paid
or, am I just there to sing to a choir of uptight patriotics
slurping down party-juice and saying “why don’t you know?”
— and, I never asked them how come they do not know
what my city was like before; invasion? Not entirely
privacy or rather personality has been replaced by cosmopolitanism…

…and I am a victim; pierced by criticism on how “ignorant” or “wild” I am
how I require domestication that men and women undergo to be better human beings
preferring to be farm petri-ostrich-dishes on a scale on “this is what country love” or “Bengali identity” or “Bangladeshi identity” means — and then there is a space where even  this does not fully resonate; where the “naturalized”  is a foreign and a natural subsists other ways prolifically — but politically incorrectly and so you see slaughter of tribes and tribal origins — there is newness in killing or the persistence in killing races for “greater goods” — for cattle have received an adequate remuneration for their pound of flesh — what has extinction fed to the narcissism of the human race? — or, a contradictory exclusion?

…the Moroll of a village is a head who helps, or tries, to show some just, some morals
there is no Moroll of a city who does not break morale; by succinctly  and succulent-like
denying an idiosyncratic exchange but erecting stereotypical barriers as easily as an affable porn actor  uses viagra to make his john become a johnson in quick hoops;

it hurts at times for they have never asked me what I do know or what I am willing to know — they only come with a smile that has hidden a sneer like a surreal torment in a panick-stricken scream image or a intricate chapati and go asking what I do not know; glitter in their eyes as easy as pretty models under the traditional Western sun of extravagant bodies waiting for tan and tip of some climax — sadism has become a form of new orgasm — and I patiently bear…baring less fangs than I should yet I wonder…

When will they ask me what was Dhaka like then?

What is it like now?

And how happy or disappointed am I at these things?

So strange how language makes cats get tongues rather than having our own…

…I could never ask them to, for it is considered impolite to an extent, how they know Dhaka…

if Dhaka is nothing to them…I could never ask what their district lives were like…▬



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