And there she lay, face down,
lowered into the waters
where a Lethean fish, amidst its jig,
tangled itself in a lock of gold;
the phone in her hand seemed as if some dark genie
had whisked through it a while ago…
Her buttocks, whitened into ivory,
shone smooth as a Delphic rock
edged with the finality of the Grecian sun;
and here and there, phials without their pills,
all prancing in her blood
that curded into ichor —
for the first time,

Monroe was not body only!



She grabs hold of my hand when
a small Amul grocery tucks like a joey
under the fur of rain;
the windows fill with the stench
of deer’s blood — I hurry
to where the broad-armed Amazon
strolls along the grass rubbing clouds
against the contorted doll
to the point of invisibility – she
alone hence lingers; Death is
a dense lingering … I fathom Death
no more than a tripper, gasping,
fathoms a cryptic script scribbled on the walls
of an Aztec cave but yet who snores the night
away lapping his head on the very stones…
Dying is not knowing Death, perhaps;
this I would while I yet live when the
cemetery’s parked along the
hectic conscience; I peek into the well
while Death coops up her guild of five;
It is dark in there, I cannot see…

Death is purple —



Like certain animals sense
a tweak of a tremor beneath the turf,
she somehow saw a flicker
of the swan in their eyes —
her bra sat tighter on her breasts!

Shocked to find her foe lurking
only behind a window of glass,
she decided to enter
the other half of her being — her shadow,
and glue the broken fruit anew;

— Death, while you inch closer,
hold thy grin, thy hungry fists!
This ain’t something you do;
and here’s for you the poser:

can you clasp the flower without crushing it?


Christ in the Salon

Christ squats in the salon, smiling,
while the month of Friday
trickles down the pooch’s tongue;

the barber, blind, wipes
his Gillette razor along the edges
of His sprawling robe
leaving it bearded with foam;

all through the day
scissors rattle around His ears;
clumps of hair heap up
at His feet, arms, face…
Rusty blades wallow on His thighs;

the apes don’t see;
they bare their hair to the glare of steel,
close their eyes, humanize, walk away;

while all through the night,
the Ape on the cross bawls and bawls and bawls…


Susmit Panda

Susmit Panda

Susmit Panda is a poet from Kolkata. Born in 1996, his first book of poems 50 Arteries, was released in 2016. His poems have appeared in ICF, Guftugu, and The Journal, a London magazine.