The soldiers return
pride too large for their faces
the dust gyrates around their firm calves
They have imprisoned the sun in their guns
like the wheels of bicycles
flying flying flying down a smooth slope
They have released fire onto doomed enemies
the sunless sky becoming quite green
the battlefield is a battered field now
The soldiers return
livid inhaling and calm exhaling
muscles are sparkling, eyes rippling in victory
The soldiers return,
the triumphant bells ringing between their legs
Silly citizens dancing, marveled
Can the blind ask about missing clothes?
No one knows they have fought worms
the soldiers know the sun is in David’s tiny world
The Sleeping Peacock
I discovered a majestic peacock
lying comatose in my littered backyard,
with wet fingerish twigs on its neck.
I took it home and colors spilled
onto my hands and poured into
my eyes as I wiped at teardrops.
I placed the peacock on my bed,
talking it in back to life, stroking
its sleeping rainbows, its inert fan
of moist quills.
A few perfect circles were drawn
on the bedsheet as the bird tried
to stir and open its eyes. The night
was black when it died.
Every day I now dream of huge
peacocks pecking at my heart,
the weight of the birds pushing
me into the colorful abyss opening
in my bed; my cries killed by bloody
fingers creeping around my parched throat.
I’ve been to Padua.
I’ve stood puckishly in front of the pianoforte,
punched it strongly and devoured its cute keys,
as if they were delicious, wondrous wafers.
I’ve been to Germany
I’ve grabbed the gorgeous gittare
and banged it against the wall and green carpet
I’ve been to Divje Babe.
I’ve taken my fine fingers and closed
the holes in the femur-like flute
until it choked and died.
I’ve been to Bermudas
I’ve shaped the gleaming triangle into
a bizarre square, and composed
a peppy John Deacon album
I’ve been to Cuba.
I’ve hanged the boisterous bongo drum
from the Cuban ceiling and
learned world-class boxing.
I’ve been the most brilliant musical criminal
For now, I’ll play the music
found in my inner self,
in my own paradise,
and you’ll find me dead in my bed, listening
to I’m Alive on repeat mode,
With a toothless Mona Lisa smile.
BIOGRAPHY: Aged 28, Amit Parmessur has been writing for the past 9 years. He has been accepted and appeared in several magazines including The Literary Burlesque, Yes Poetry, vox poetica, Leaf Garden Press, Ann Arbor Review, Burnt Bridge, Calliope Nerve, Catapult to Mars, Censored Poets, Clockwise Cat, Clutching at Straws, Damazine, Gloom Cupboard, Heavy Hands Ink, LITSNACK, Mad Swirl, Orchard Press Mysteries, Puffin Circus, Shalla Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, The Camel Saloon, The Houston Literary Review, The Scrambler and Word Slaw among others. Someone who has a deep respect for India, the land of his ancestors, he hails from the lovely Mauritius.