Sex with Michel Foucault
You call it sexuality, I call it bread.
Chewing the bread, smashing the bread…
It’s my habit to write poetry from the dough.
You call it habit, I call it discourse.
Hunger is not a discourse, nor a theory, nor a seminar.
It loves to take the whole
Jams, Jelly, Sugar, Salt, and Beef—the censorship too.
You call it discipline, I call it sin.
I love to be a sinner in my bedroom,
I love to smear butter on my body
and moisten my soul before Mephistopheles.
Do you call it narrative? I call it vulgar.
Taking off everything—I write the body again, I write the politics again,
I write the aesthetics inside a professional asylum.
You call it aesthetic, I call it seduction.
Seduction is more expensive than love
Seduction is cheaper than love.
You call it love, I call it sex.
Famous men are same.
Some are famous on left, some on right.
Some are famous for happiness, some for sufferings.
Someone is too innocent to realise what is he famous for .
They love to drink the moonlight,
They love to drink the Amravati.
They don’t know camphor is in their sky, sandal is in their air.
Sandal means doubt, camphor means despair;
The anger and sorrow of those who are born to die in dark.
Famous men are fond of the invisible peacock they hide in their house…
Screaming day and night, in the street, in the hell and even in the tea
shop the famous men had never dared to come.
When the city is in sleep, the peacock dances to its tunes.
Without letting the city know, the peacock itself becomes very famous.
Famous men and invisible peacock both look the same at night.
Right now, she has two private things—
One tooth-brush, one comb.
she had some other things of her own but they
got sold out at a high price in dollars.
Flaunting her toothbrush and comb, she is now ad material.
‘Come on, like whichever way you like, you can smell her comb and brush.’
In the last decade, her price rose even higher
Her hands ,her legs, her face, her rivulet, her hills, her mystery, got more than fair price
in countries hot and cold.
Now she has only two things left.
If she can sell them, then her life on earth is complete.
In her next life, she will give birth to a new Jesus Christ.
She will be a goddess herself.
Her lap will dazzle with the sunlight of a free economy.
Can anyone auction sunlight?
It may happen one day.
If tooth brush, comb and sunlight are auctioned ever,
then we will recognize the girl under the street fluorescent light,
sadly sitting with a busked of oranges for sale.
They brought the dead body late at night and said,
‘Hey Doctor, write down,
The girl has committed suicide.
Or else, we will skin you up,
Write down….. quick.’
Looking at the body,
My room, my sky, my heart
goes lit with the moon.
I wrote down everything.
I wrote it in a way they write a story of laughter,
they write a story of love.
the way we bead the nail,
make wound on the wall
just to hang Jesus on the wall,
the way we create history.
I wrote down everything in the same way
a poet laments before an unfinished poem.
I did it because I know,
each murder is a suicide,
each suicide is a murder.
Read the Bengali originals here.