Shome Dasgupta

The Only Way We Know

Brittle the smile, gone went the grimace–
shallow heads sunk deep into a well
full of gone and gone, long done the thoughts:
past blocks–in shades and hues, imagined realities
once existed in distorted skies, fickle:
is the dance of the mind, and cloud cloud
clouds sang stretched lights–parallel to lines
connecting a tick tock world to haphazard
hazardous souls of belonged beings,
who once found meaning–of love and life and memories
in a stray mutt, tongue sagging, watery barks–
while searching for tasteless suds,
anything means everything when the forgotten
remember to remember: that they are the ones
meant to fade away into darkness, that is–
light we know but no longer want to exist,
and this, why geometric planes tilt this way and that,
plates welcoming maths of uncertainties.

Hoarse throats: lullaby of perception–
we are all so very gone, so very here–
time unaccounted for, but here here here:
just a moment, we reached out our hands
for skin for a leaf an orange a lime,
when sought a mud of ideas, that
once lit the universe, were no longer
purposeful–so we went our ways with a tongue
tasting of grit and smiles and a grimace gone full of dirt
and leaves of a fallen whatever truth–
so went and goes the matter of atoms, particles
of which we are all made but were never made to realize,
we’re all so made to be confused: the end of it all
is just the beginning, and glitter sprinkles upon
our faces as if we know what really happened.

Shake shake shook.

All of our science: took the turtle’s shell,
skull in meditation, chins are so up–
chins are so weary and worn:
worn was what we were meant to be–
glass, o’ the glass and glass, glass glass sparked
the touch of ignition made to lead us
to a spiral of reflections and wooden ladders
beaten, eroded like rivers traveling
through crevices of our tongues
and taste buds and tacit towers,
soles of your standing: sound
and sound and sound, bells shout
like we haven’t been heard for an infinity,
but no matter, no matter at all–we drift,
let ourselves unravel–it was all meant to be:
a silent understanding–it was never going to happen.

A blaze a fire a speck of ash:
swimming, stomach of ghost–
a specter spectacular,
we all should know–we are all that ghost,
the ghost that waves hi when we are looking down–
concrete cement coffins below, our souls
rusted–unwavering, fireflies once knew
what we were thinking–we never asked
for solace, we want but never seek–
a lake of glimmer settled upon our faces,
shimmer and shiver, it’s all the same–
we’ve seen it all–heard, felt:
learned that the beginning is much like the end–
we’re not surprised, not surprised at all–
in the end, we expected it to be that way,
and that is the only way we know.

Shome Dasgupta lives in Lafayette, LA. He is the author of i am here And You Are Gone (Winner Of The 2010 OW Press Fiction Chapbook Contest), The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), Anklet And Other Stories (Golden Antelope Press), Pretend I Am Someone You Like (University of West Alabama’s Livingston Press), and Mute (Tolsun Books). He can be found at and @laughingyeti.

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