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Malay Roychoudhury

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Stark Electric Jesus (Prachanda Boidyutik Chhutar)
by Malay Roychoudhury
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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Stark Electric Jesus redefined the contours of love poems in Bengali literature. It is 'the' representative poem of the Hungryalist movement which changed the course of creative Indian literature once for all. The famous Hungry Generation Trial in 1960s was based on charges leveled against this poem, though the poet won the case at Calcutta High Court.

Oh I'll die I'll die I'll die
My skin is in blazing furore
I do not know what I'll do wher I'll go oh I'm sick
I'll kick all Arts in the back and go away Shubha
Shubha let me go and live in your cloaked melon
in the unfastened shadow of dark destroyed saffron curtain
The last anchor is leaving me  after i got the other anchors lifted
I can't resist anymore, a million glasspanes are breaking in my cortex
I know, Shubha, spread out your matrix, give me peace
Each vein is carrying a stream of tears up to the heart
Brain' contageous flints are decomposing out of eternal sickness
Mother why didn't you give me birth in the form of a skeleton
I'd have gone two billion light years and kissed God's arse
But nothing pleases me nothing sounds well
I feel nauseated with more than a single kiss
I've forgotten women during copulation and returned to the Muse
In to the sun-coloured bladder
i do not know what these happenings are but they are occurring within me
I'll destroy and shatter everything
Draw and elevate Shubha into my hunger
Shubha will have to be given
Oh Malay
Calcutta seems to be a procession of wet and slippery organ today
But I do not know what I'll do now with my own self
My power of recollection is withering away
Let me ascend alone toward death
I haven't had to learn copulation and dying
I haven't had to learn the responsibility of shedding the last drops
                                                                       after urination
Haven't had to learn to go and lie beside Shubha in darkness
Have not had to learn the usage of French leather while lying on Nandita's bosom
Though I wanted the healthy spirit of Aleya's fresh chinarose matrix
Yet I submitted to the refuge of my brain's cataclysm
I am failing to understand why I still want to live
I am thinking of my debauched Sabarna Choudhury ancestors
I'll have to do something different and new
Let me sleep for the last time on a bed soft as the skin of
                                                                          Shubha's bosom
I remember now the sharp-edged radiance of the moment I was born
I want to see my own death before passing away
The world had nothing to do with Malay Roychoudhury
Shubha let me sleep for a few moments in your violent silvery uterus
Give me peace Shubha let me have peace
Let my sin-driven skeleton be washed anew in your seasonal bloodstream
Let me create myself in your womb with my own sperm
Would I have been like this if I had different patrents?
Was Malay alias me possible from an absolutely different sperm?
Would I have been Malay in the womb of other women of my father?
Would I have made a professional gentleman of me like my
                                      dead brother without Shubha
Oh, answer, let somebody answer these
Shubha, ah Shubha
Let me see the earth through your cellophane hymen
Come back on the green mattress again
As cathode rays are sucked up with the warmth of a magnet's brilliance
I remember the letter of the final decesion of 1956
The surroundings of your clitoris were being embellished with coon
                                                                                        at that time
Fine rib-smashing roots were descending into your bosom
Stupid relationship inflated in the byepass of senseless neglect
I do not know whether I am going to die
Squandering was roaring within heart's exhaustive impatience
I'll disrupt and destroy
I'll split all into pieces for the sake of Art
There isn't any other way out for poetry except suicide
Let me enter into the immemorial incontinence of your labia majora
Into the absurdity of woeless effort
In the golden chlorophyll of the drunken heart
Why wasn't i lost in my mother's urethre?
Why wasn't I driven away in my father's urine after his self-coition?
Why wasn't I mixed in the ovum-flux or in the phlegm?
With her eyes shut supine beneath me
I felt terribly distressed when I saw comfort seize Shubha
Women could be treacherous even after unfolding a helpless
Today it seems there is nothing so treacherous as Woman & Art
Now my ferocious heart is running towards an impossible death
Vertigoes of water are coming up to my neck from the pierced earth
I will die
Oh what are the happenings within me
I am failing to fetch out my hand and my palm
From the dried sperms on my trousers spreading wings
300000 children gliding toward the district of Shubha's bosom
Millions of needles are now running from my blood into Poetry
Now the smuggling of my obstinate leg is trying to plunge
Into the death-killer sex-wig entangled in the hypnotic kingdom of words
On violent mirrors of each wall of the room I'm observing
After letting loose a few naked Malay, his unestablished scramblings.



Stark Electric Jesus by Malay Roychoudhury

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