By Limbicmoshpit
Knock-Offs and First Copy
Trade wars begin in households.
Bilateral demands are dishes piled up in the sink.
Green mould culture cultivated into the sinews of multiracial histories.
Real-life stories are lost on tongues silenced by misrepresented identities.
Rotting leftovers are grossly miscalculated terms, definitions …
W.O.R.D.S – Wordles of Oppression, Repression, Destruction, Suppression.
The overbearing handle of a ladle with too much or too little,
the heavy hand of salty complaints,
the empty pocket of sweet nothings,
the slight turn of a wrist in dissent,
the No suffocated by corrosive commerce
greets our neighbourhoods at doors locked from the inside.
Hardly an impasse for the stench of repulsive economics that
violates thresholds built to keep us safe, designed to give us the right
to choose what enters and what doesn’t,
what we buy or reject on-site, at first sight.
Across the floor seating, over the dinner table,
Oval as her face, or round as his fist, or rectangular as a textbook,
bitter astringent mouthfuls too difficult to swallow
smash into the hollow of temples at 4G speed,
belt buckles blacken the archway of shoulder blades
better familiar with padded straps of knapsacks and peer pressure.
Humiliation rouges the proud rise of impoverished cheekbones,
and jaundiced eyes blister on contact with nagging knuckles.
We pay the price.
We pay the price for self-preservation
In a currency no government could ever mint;
Dragging breaths and bodies
Away between muffled sobs.
Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Break Free
Flow down
your moonshine, sip
slowly, delicately.
It's going to feel like
around-the-world-jetlag
steady yourself with pieces
of bread dipped
in olive oil and herbs,
slices of pizza, or a kathi roll.
Exotic intoxication
is what you need
to draw out this sticky dis-ease
you've grown fond of,
harboured for decades
in the centre of your xiphoid process,
behind the origin of your last rib,
right underneath your liver
detoxifying family secrets.
The act of jigai
becomes so appealing, you'll figuratively conduct it.
You've been sheltering the past
like a war fugitive you swore
to protect for a debt you haven't paid off.
But this karmic knot will break free.
Just one more sip
and another, and another.
That's all you need: one more salty drop
from the bore wells
of your vitreous humour,
filling the cups
of your lacrimal papilla.
Nothing heals quite like
parting pain past pupils.
Limbicmoshpit has read her work at open mics, art, literary and poetry events and festivals in Goa and Mumbai, including the Kavya Horta, the GALF, MOG, Crossover Poetry Sessions, the Harmony of Strings Festival and the Walking Books Fairs. Her poem ‘No laddos, only jaleebis? Chee, she, she!’ written for the Girl Child cause was showcased at The Vagina Monologues (Goa Chapter, 2018) and the ‘She is Change’ campaign (Kerala, 2018). She grew up in the Middle East and is currently based in Goa. Her work aspires to hold a mirror to society, and empower and liberate the voiceless.