Amit Parmessur: Three Poems

Naked Soldiers

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.

  

Melodious Globetrotting

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.