Mantra Mukim is a student of literature at Delhi University. He lives and writes under a gooseberry tree.
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DUEL FOR A STONE-MAN
Mantra Mukim “A very fine spray/ of ionised syllables/ leaves a deposit of salt” Arun Kolatkar 1. I am Pushkin, Alexander and a poet, but when in Mandi House I do not write, rather watch the crossroad with hands over my hips, as everyone that passes me, below me questions my being and their own. revenging-boy drops tea on my left toe, expecting me to bend when everyone knows I can't, fighting this duel with the stone-man I am. 2. Nehru is dead and I have been moved closer to the road, when metro chose to spread its leg across Lutyen's chest, giving me a muse again and a haunting relay of verses, which slither near my bones, eating veins, and mining deepest truths, looking for places to die. Well, could be a poem too, if only I could find a pen or swirl a hand. 3. more concrete, more when they wished to neutralise me, their odd-ball. Black tongue. Still, my pubic beard harps in the oiled scent, the fruit-salad lady smatters before taking her ritualistic whiz around my legs, never believing her hands. the hard on, on ambassador’s daughter, playing Chopin on her tie. my desires do fly, and pelt, and swell, before they hit the stone. 4. ‘get your shit together before you go duelling again’ she had said. but, i died a playa, fighting her kohl-eyes, stealing a bold move, the sword did swoon, in nick of time, my captured spring, and without a moment’s loss, i, in stone, was whispered to other lands. (mis)heard in Dilli. Delhi. 5. now at least chisel away the winter coat you made me wear in 54’, or don’t, and syllables will touch my ionised secret, a history recorded by sweat-glands. and salt - a fidgety fuck - would soon kill the stone and let me, its man, free. Agrasen, George VII, Few others who can, Gandhi, of course, will watch my victory dance. if no one’s jealous, then?
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