GOIRICK B - POEMS

Originally from Silchar, Assam, Goirick B’s third book of poems, Wet Radio and other poems was published 2017. His poems have appeared in magazines like Berfrois, Café Dissensus, Raiot and Nether, among others. He is currently working on a collaborative volume of verses titled ‘The Nightwalkers’ along with Debarshi Mitra (Forthcoming from Writer’s Workshop, Kolkata).

<Recovery>
​

​The night is the only weapon
To confront these viral times
When distance becomes the only elixir
And all touch forbidden.
Counting seconds
Memories
Forgotten tastes,
Fragrances.
Sidewalks,
Yellow broken brights,
All emotions erased
Or, are they?
 
The same old place
Same old faces
The same old anxiety pills
Only the has expression
Changed.
 
 
 

<How to erase memories>
​

​The short-lived once are the hardest
Comparing does not work
Whining is just me; fading out like time, evaporating
There is a thin line between possessiveness and the end
I examine the two ideas
Closely. Oversleeping, is a good advice
Oh fuck, someone stop that filthy music right now, fuckers!
My room is my universe
Coffee makes you restless,
Work is slow, so are our movements.
Count your hours until we can converse again


 

A disease for a disease 
​

​Sitting inside the glass chambers
They dream of genocides. The decree
Of the king is forever final.
The judges and the saviours
Will be hanged at the twilight.
The vicious ghosts of the writers
Must be invariably accoladed.
Their vices are carefully collected
Into separate potion vials.
 
Distilled drops of death
Drip into my colourless veins.
This addictive craving
For self-harm is self-explanatory.
My bare body for ages bounded by infectious, covetous
Constant human hammering, episodes
Of mass mental murder and cerebral loss, nasty hankerings.
Someone raise the seventh wall right now! 
Liquids of all colours ooze out
Along with sharp beeps at different frequencies.
Filth is now the new elixir.
 
And all the subjects of the damned land
Have already paid their taxes and their tongues.
Silence has always been the only consensus.
Rage manifests itself into myriad essence
Of pain: sometimes familiar, sometimes insane.
 
Conformation traded for a last chance
At a choked existence.
Conversion, a morphine painkiller. 
X-rays have given up and denied to scan
The end of this earth’s sanity.
And yet, they await 
For an answer.
 
 
 
 
 

Anomaly
​

​To approach the state
Of containing no meaning,
The end of sound must
Begin; abstaining the speech
First, then the sighs or the moans
 
Now the minds must stop,
All anatomies disem-
Bodied; entities
Resolved to isolate or
Fade into silence
 
The drone of an aged
Old fan, text alerts, alarms,
Cars disappear; roads
Melt into rivers, disjoint
Monophonics in this age
 
When soliloquy
Becomes the only script, all
The codes and trials
Fail to connect us; no, don't
Blame it on our ignorance.
 
 
 

A lockdown Self-portrait (2020)
​

​My mouth is dry
I do not trust this existence
I don’t trust myself most
I am not here
Just Caged
Lonely in a crowded image
Only bones
Broken teeth
Skull
Nails
Parched toes
Bitten fingers
Bitten skin



Tramadol
Tastes like charcoal
And I smell like decomposed fast food,
Wastehills



My eyes now blur
Conglomerate visions
Anger from the past
Remorse
Failures
Dark circles
Fractured jawline
Melt into fluid



What is a good life?
 
Self-destructive dreams
Insecurities,
Uncertain self,
Future
Possessively
Possessed
By the present
A heart without any preservatives
Only a dark hole.