Self Portrait

image

I cough like Plath,
Languishing in the bed.
& gouge out images
On parchments
With spiked fingers
Looking at the bookshelves
Dead ahead.

I dip myself in ink –
A fool to fame –
Or dreams of it
& lisp in words
For they come so easy
Sometimes.

In this idle trade
The muses serve me,
Helping me through
But not really.

Doubt gnaws
At my fervent mind.
Anger festers
In the heart.

There is poison
Pooling
On my tongue.

This long disease –
This life –
Swollen with puss
Now starts to itch.

I mangle every work.
Like calcifying rocks.

With my mere touch,
Stars turn to white novae,
Shine brilliantly,
Explode
& die black holes
Silently.

I usurp the duties
Of gods.
I kill the colors,
Turn black,
Assume dominance
Over my heart –
The size of a sapphire.
& say to myself repeatedly:
I’ll never write
Thoughts of gold.
In the suburban
Tongue of Plath.

I lay through centuries,
Feeling the candle flame,
Tasting the incense smoke
In the hours of the dead night.

Remember Medusa,
Who couldn’t even
Love herself?

Well, I am the new her.

A glance at me will turn
The beholder to stone.

I have live snakes for hair.
My face is chewed.
My arms flail
Into an angry abyss
Of hateful words
Burning through the brain
In long loneliness.
& I say to myself repeatedly:
I’ll never write
Thoughts of gold.
In the suburban
Tongue of Plath.

Twitter @bibek_writes

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