I don't think I'm allowed
to land in a cloud.
Why is nice bad?
I invented what it feels
like to wait. It's not
a lie if you believe it.
[A word problem.]
Could you make me a woman?
I’m still looking for the other
half of my head
for reasons of conscience.
A tape of nostalgic songs
borrowing things from my blood;
serenity now, insanity later.
Freeze frame a moment
at the nexus of the universe
with some Scotch tape.
Now you know how I feel.
Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer from Bangalore, India. She loves experimenting with Japanese short-forms of poetry, as well as found/remixed pieces alike. Her poems have most recently appeared in After the Pause, Jazz Cigarette, Under the Basho, Right Hand Pointing, Failed Haiku, and so on. Shloka is the founding editor of the literary & arts journal, Sonic Boom.
I'm standing in the wind.
We had five years left to cry,
stay in, get things done.
The wordy gurdy stands
quiet in the middle of my head;
missing pieces [with just enough
shine] rubber-banded tog-
Back then, when she rose
from her beach chair, the weave imprinted itself
on the backs of her jiggly thighs.
Who would have carried it this far,
up the crest between watersheds,
then quit before the downhill?
This was your domain.
Pocket jingling a handful of brads, flat pencil behind your ear,
you’d bore through the browsers; pay and go.
When you rose from the sea
the crown of your head
touched the clouds
A conveyor belt delivers mutton and fowl.
Hot meringues suffer and collapse
under my ruthless fork.
His breath tripped over words stuck between his teeth
and tongue as sinewy shoulders curved.
The child stood, small, shivering in her tattered brown coat,
a dented, scuffed brown suitcase gripped in her hand.
mushrooms, beets, carrots, cabbage,
uncle’s ashen face.