Editorial

The best thing about a globalized poetic connectivity is that, it throbs with different souls. Life that gushes forth through the vengeance-filled, termite-eaten warsky, life that thrives on the Mephistophelean intensity of norms and romances, squeezes out the discords of destiny in umpteenth ways. Globalized spaces create verisimilitude – in terse verse, in extreme tempo, in the retarding memory of mine-filled with clumsy-you. Nature elaborates and masters of the world make the story more intense… Nights elongate with turgid elasticity, days thrash their porcelain backs against the mimosa-coloured walls, years tumble onto the dainty feast of street mongrels while the world celebraes a littany beyond borders… Why do you care when you have the crispy fish-recipes at hand, smothered by the victims of daydream…you laugh at the stock photos of love and guerrilla war, fragmented and then caressed by the rhythms of sinister ambiguity. There is no trance stuck in the meritorious traffic jam, there is no boulevard where you can plant the trees of apple, cherries and succulent breasts… You heave constantly, slurp the magnesium-coated pages of history, rest with a rifle that sings you a leftover dream and die with a throttle in your voice… The maimed melancholy looks on… Lines separated under snowflakes… Calling you soon to translate bathsalt-bodies and delusory days…

Sreetanwi Chakraborty

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