Stop in the name of love


Do stop in the name of love
Think of the body of your woman
White hills, brown sand dunes
And her sea swell eyes

Do imagine walking through her hills
Singing siren songs well-intentioned but still
Crass and rude and her disappointed sighs
As she quietly nudges away from you

Think of it and deeply think

Stop for the sake of her love
Stop writing odes that’ll dry her up
Deflate the white hills to curmudgeon deserts
Brown sand dunes to soggy swamps
And sea swell eyes to salty spit

Even now she cries for help
For mercy and her anguish lengthens
With every corny line you ink
And every watered down metaphor

Stop in the name of love
And all that is holy and beauty
That you have tied in a noose
And now rape even though it’s already dead
And you’ve killed it, well congrats!

Twitter @bibek_writes

Dilli Bazaar


[Devkota was the greatest poet of Nepal and the Nepali language. He who was born and bred in Dilli Bazar in Kathmandu. Today is his 107th birth anniversary.]

These are the narrow streets Devkota trod
In utter voicelessness, abject in hopelessness.

Even streets have their humor these days,
Gawking in lifeless sardonic scoffing
Cursing & blaming the shoes
That scuttle by.
Now we sit here
In the wayside tea shops,
Inhaling the acrid smoke
The buses spew forth, on a curb,
& exhaling macabre tales of women & poverty & politics,
Overclouding our smoky souls &
Talk bitterly with strident voices,
Like a choir of frogs after a heavy rainfall.
In utterly hideous tongues,
Singing the songs
Of his patriotism.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Thapathali Campus: A Burlesque of Life


some discontent stirs in me
at times when I walk in this campus
old questions I had learnt to ask not
old yearnings and desires
approach me flying
like a boomerang
leave me seething with anger
& hatred

I look around with vague anxiety
& see the wilderness amid the urbanity
O look at the thistle –
sprouting out luxuriously
like body hair
after shaving –
the cctv cameras –
dangling like penises
tumescent and pompous
tattered flags mounting twisted flagpoles –
waving like a drowning man’s hands
in the hope of getting some attention
these walls stripped naked –
like eucalyptus leaves off its bark
earthquake-broken temple –
still seeking obeisance
withering like fallen pipal leaves
the demi-goddesses of knowledge –
sitting weary and mute
drooping her body
like a bottlebrush tree
shedding muted cries

students who suck
on beer bottles
& roll cigarettes
& watch porn at lunch breaks
mutter red manifestos
under their breath –
never a lull in their noises
their blood boils
the sweat pours off their brows
& a long screech of Shangri-La attracts
these buildings, huddled together
like gutters
like gourd vines
climbing, twining, creeping

there is redness everywhere
the hush of the revolution is red
the rage of the unknown is red
the replica of broken slogans,
carved on the toilet walls, is red:
long live deemoocraacy!
down with hypoocrissy!

all of these remind me of my broken dreams
the way I wanted to be somewhere else
the way I wanted to be someone else
every time I enter this campus of
redness, a beehive collapses in my mind
& petrified of drones and stings
I sleepwalk like souls in a purgatory
while all the while
my life falls into the
yawning abyss of rancor
& an agony of doubt
stings me with its sharp fang
& a numbness pains
my senses

these buildings are dying &
nothing will remain here
in the yards
even these walls are sagging
even these bricks are unsalable
with redness, they thought
they had beaten the system
& made intellectual choices
look how they are failing!

all that remains here
is their rotten luxury
of red manifestos
one day soon will turn
into absolute emptiness
there will only be dung-heap
of emptiness, plying on more
& more emptiness

from that vast stretch
of oceanic emptiness,
atop that mutilated corpse
of buildings, of streets and courtyards
of red manifestos,
inhaling the foul smell of rottenness,
I will sit in lotus position
like some bloody Buddha
& keep smiling.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Lovelorn at 36 — His Story


Like a tin can tied to his tail,
He walks like the invisible dog,
Taking no notice of the tin can.

The village women call away their children
If he is passing the trail between the bushes.
They all recoil as if he is Marques de Sade in person.

With some hidden imprudence,
With an air of I don’t give a fuck, no not I,
If nobody gives a fuck to me,

Shrewdly, with some bitterness in his tail,
He walks, keeping the women
Away from the wood.

They think of him as some nasty dog,
Who walks on his hind legs,
With breeches’ buttons undone,

An arching, flagged thing always pointing
To their small mouths, mouths that always
Babble the bossy impudence. Yet he keeps walking,

Thinking of manly tenderness,
Of cunt-hardness,
& of everything that comes in between.

He thinks about wedging his face into their dark places,
& with whole mouth eating their hardness, their hungriness
While he struggles his breathing.

He thinks of conquering their most private of hungers,
Their sexiness as big as China
& slowly and lowly be enlightened.

While the women’s owlish hateful staring
Hangs onto the meeting of his thighs
Like the fire that burns during fucking.

Little flame yellow and brilliant —
A virtuousness flowing inside him
A virtuousness like the river of fire

Flowing and flowing endlessly
Fucking himself into peace
With the little flame alight.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Lovelorn at 18 — Her Story


She was 18 and so very
Desperate to fall in love.

Her pussy wished to live
In a different era, in a different space.
She wanted not to be soft down there,
Like a fig, but wanted it to be
Like a woodpecker’s beak —
& wished to tear the men till they were sick.
She was a rubber, an elastic infinitum,
a dick decorum.
Yet, she needed some goddamn
Respect with proper civility from
Her fellow men.
Should she not be fussy
About her pussy?

College was a sweet pie, but
With not much of saccharine
& she was not loved the way
She wanted to be.
Drenched in sunlight, she walked to and fro
Like some Mediterranean artichoke
With a large edible thistle like flower-head.
People thought she’d never bear the fruit
That she should bear;
That she’s not technically a woman.
But, somewhere in her mind, she knew
She’d find the man she deserved
& she’d fuck him with warm heart
& be warm-hearted in love.

Because she was 18 and
Everything seemed possible.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Psychotherapy Ends


“Oh dear! You must try to be brave.”
Said the shrink, passing a tissue.

Blowing my nose, I gazed and gazed at his face
& slowly and gradually as I was doing so
The sound grew dimmer and dimmer &
Finally disappeared. No more hydrogen balloon.
The shrink gave his lips a slight twitch,
But vouchsafed no reply beyond taking his
John Lennon glasses out and put it on the table.

The brackish taste of tears reminded me of her face
Ah, what comely face! Childishly red, pouting lips,
& delicate hands. I loved her with a blind, insensate
Passion. A passion clutched in the vice of lust.
I kept staring at his face and kept thinking about her.
Nervous, his pudgy fingers began their customary
Scrutiny of his face.
He crossed, uncrossed, crossed his legs
& reclined back on his arm chair.

“So, how are you feeling now?”
A crackled voice from a sweating face —
Like Rice Krispies crackling in the bowl.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel anything.”

“Don’t be absurd!” He cried.

“Seriously – I don’t feel, I don’t believe in anything.”

“Oh! Don’t be a Nihilist! No one lives in an
Absolute void, an airless vacuum. One must live by
Some principles. Prin—ci—ples!” He said distinctly,
Rather snappishly.


“Some certain set of rules, some codes of conduct,
A belief to take a single step in life, or to draw a single
Breath, a life dedicated to God.”


I threw him a reproachful look
& glanced covertly from one wall to another.
He raised his eyebrows, jerked his head backwards,
Tried to say something, but remained quiet.
A naught in my chest tightened, save the bitter,
Galling sensation of an irrevocable failure.
A ghost of smile suddenly appeared on the shrink’s face:
A buttery and honeyed voice suffused the air —

“You must know where you want to go.
You must know where you are going.
You must know the basic principles!”

I gave him the laconic – ‘yes’ –
As an answer to this mere charlatan.

“So the principles are —”
The shrink began and went on and on.
It was a noise uttered in inconsolable way
Like the quack-quack-quacking of a duck.

I surrendered my mind wholly to the childlike
Play of his lonely, irregular thoughts
With misty waves of my past rising and falling
Inside the deep gorges of my mind,
I had no idea how long I kept listening to him
Time – was it flying like a humming bird?
Or crawling like a snail?

“But the fact is I’m unhappy.”
I intervened his train of speech.

“Unhappy? For what reason?
Because a girl left you?”
A response so curt, so rude flung back.

I frowned. “No, not that. I have no wish,
No enthusiasm to live. No desire to continue
My existence.”

“You’re yet young. You’re intelligent and independent.
What more could you desire?”

“What more?” I re-echoed, with a sigh.
“What more? I do not know.” I said again.

“Hmm … this is bad.” He reflected.

On the prescription pad he scribbled
With a touch of diffidence as cold &
As formal as a stagnant pool.
I craned my neck to see what he was writing
A long, winding ‘V’, illegible twist and turns
With an ‘m’ in the end. What? Was it a Valium?

Would you not refer some gemstone, eh?
Or any magical protection of a talisman?

I kept looking at him with gaping solemnity,
With edified boredom.

“I wish to see you next week.
To check your progress.” He said, passing me the
Wafer-thin sheet of paper, and smiling a wooden
& ingratiating smile.


Outside the sun shined through the rift of clouds
& a cool breeze blew across my face.
For a moment, I was happy.

Twitter @bibek_writes