A Sublime Hideout

Imagine playing a game of cards. The cards arranged randomly, each with a story to tell. You could pick up any card. The Djinn grants you three. Pick the first card.

                The Queen of Clubs

She’s woken up today, with no inhibitions.
as the sun wakes up with her,
she hears the ringing of trinkets on her
friend’s bicycle.

She is late.
Again.

Her eyes gallop through the clothes,
her arms reaching in and out of the
sleeves of her t-shirt and her legs
piston into the track pants

She throws open the door
a little too loudly
for her father to grunt asleep

She mounts the cycle.

leaves behind
the door,
the trees,
the breeze

her breath
occasionally
and catches up
with it when she cruses
letting the road do its job.

Men pass by.
The postman,
the milkman.
the old man; on a bicycle?
he looks.
looks.
looks.
looks,
he looks.

He paints the walls red
which comes crashing down on her
the reds of his eyes
melting concretes
melting bricks

The clothes feel lopsided on her body,
never mind
her existence.

The card burns out, leaving ashes and soot on the table of the warehouse. The players sit and stare at you, waiting to see you play your hand. You draw a card reluctantly, flick it cautiously on the wooden plank

           

The Jack of Spades

Step away,
you are not supposed to see this part.

the part where
he looks down
and realizes

something that he has never before
something he just discovered about himself

there are better things in life

than just clean body parts
nobody likes to talk about it
of course.
because you are supposed to
neatly

tuck everything inside
and make sure it is safe
from nakedness
from breeze
from the cold of water

from curiosity
if scientists can get curious about insects,
why can’t he,
about something which’s a part of him?

curiosity never kills the cat,
it’s a mythology woven,
hundreds of years ago, by shadows

devoid of flesh
and touch, 

sensations 

which make us
different from
water -
insoluble.

In silence crackles the fire. The night feigns quietness in anticipation of the last card. The weary moon’s drooping eyelids is lifted by the enigma of climax. The broken concrete walls echo the quietness of its heartbeat – filling spaces of the bullet-holes. “Pick the last card,” the beast calmly orders, its palm gracefully gestures towards the deck. A hand reaches out towards the card. The sirens blast like an august cloud-burst. They have discovered, the hideout. Delinquents run for their lives, leaving behind

The Joker

She is a statue
sitting idle,
an idol of
perfect

smiles
leg-cuffed with anklets
with same scented flowers’
fragrance incenses
causing an unmoving
presence of
soothing musical chaos
and toe-tapping
tenants of life

until the time
when she is carried
from the shelf
to a dollhouse exhibition

the strings tighten
around her waist
and sounds like a musical
with a classical conundrum

She loses her hands
and limbs
grows pincers
and wheels,
hymns
for the weekend
and the mornings after

Her bronze hide
defrosting,
the becoming
of a blind spirit
which opens its eyes

To see
to feel
and

Molt.

* This work was submitted as a part of Christ Universtiy's BA English Honour's Gender Studies course for Continuous Internal Assessment - I.