too fake to be plastic

A woman She’s window shopping People, lives, ambitions Touching, at times tasting

Keep on bullying myself What if, could I have Missteps: Allah Catastrophe: man The victim is she I, woman Who will start therapy next week Her pussy wet, heart is dry She’s getting used to a messy apartment Wishes to watch movie with lover Enjoys it 10x more with sister

I stopped dreaming in Farsi; so Zia recites it on shuffle — My Spotify is crazier than yours Disco Rani’s doing her make up No Lady Gaga knock-offs, only Fuck me pumps drag show,

I have made deities out of tooba and zoya

when people say to me

there is no love here, everything is awful, the dunya is doomed, there was never anything worth saving

We’re all just emotional monkeys

I don’t tell them stories about zoya and tooba

(Sometimes)

But I promise them

With stories of tooba and zoya running in my mind as fast as lsd fuelled nightmares and visions and mystical poetries

Us in Lahore, where through our tears and laughter and bitchin and dancing

We even colored the morning sky pink

And when the night was blue and dark and strobed

We made it purple and playful, blasting stars into eyes

Like glitter like glitter like glitter

And if imperialism wasn’t a monster

we would be learning how to love plants, together

for now it seems

we must bloom for other places

My poetry knows what it sounds like

And the verdict is: bad manners

no economies of scale or words

as careless as the morning sound of birds

It made this decision at a ripe age

Where instead of growth, it believed in death

And wrapped around itself many vines

Refused to believe in form for sines

In Plato’s cave, there shall from now on be light

My fever pitch having burnt through shackles

Instead of confusion, a chromatic genome

In place of darkness to defy, rather a home

My poetry knows what it sounds like

and often it opts for kitsch over rhythm

For how many women do not practice the real thing

Do you know what the sunniest city in the world is? Yuma, fucking Arizona, homie. And i know that, for sure – as does the vast variety of Yale University motherfuckers i am acquainted with, everyone who’s been lucky for the past 22 years – because I was given found even in carceral America, something Holy, something Black, something about magic or calm in the midst of a curse – if you know Mo, you know more.

i am nothing without that basement in lawrance hall. nothing as sick as fuck at least, put every single acid trip on a reel. nothing neither without audre lorde, ma rainey, jimmy b’s here be dragons, introduced to me freshman fall by God’s mercy (and the gays)

who would i have been without it? gwen’s a kindness punk before it was ever cool, or seemed necessary: her smile welcomed me to America / didn’t ask me if Pakistan had roads, but always wanted to know if my mama was doing alright. every time i died, i waltzed to morse dining hall and so much of me hopes that the smiles i faked, exaggerated, performed in earnest, the tears i held back at times, the hurt i only shared with her, brought even a percentage of the light into gwen’s life that she, in that something Holy, something Black way, litters carelessly, constantly, democratically everywhere she goes.

the only two boys on Turtle Island who i left pieces of my heart with know who they are, half-Black, all Holy, at times confused but bite ‘em as much as u want America, you’ll never get em; behind Baldwin’s warning, a promise: here be angels.

no one dances in America like a Black femme does, no one fucked me in America with the kindness and the humanness i needed, everyone deserves, except a Black boy and no one pains, carries the burden of white people’s first world pathetic excuse for a life, like a Black body; i saw this with my own eyes, i saw the ICE truck at my border of Bedstuy and Bushwick i saw the young Black boy outside his high school, under a pig’s knee, with a whole crowd of loved ones gathered, not one able to save him, and he made the news too, but his Black life didn’t matter to white America who still bought their $5 capitalism juice from Starbucks loved their $900 lease in Brooklyn and the pigs who’d entertain their noise complaints.

my ode to the geniuses of America i witnessed was to leave, to let someone hear, anyone that the violence that makes America what it is is too harsh for me to bear,

and that there is another place i remember that i will always be your friend from, something to fly away from Amerikkka to, somewhere to come share your mind, and your heart, and your body in:

where it will be you and me, intertwined,

and only a memory of that other place – where everything cost too much and everything Black-owned wouldn’t last too long, co-opted by some California loser with borrowed guilt, stolen Blaccent, and superficial solidarity.

What makes you believe that anyone deserves love, let alone anything else?

I thought I would never know where my Istanbul would be hiding — how could I,

I’m only here for like four days and I don’t even speak any Turkish, but

So it goes,

There I was,

“You seem to believe that everyone deserves to be loved and here is my primary disagreement:

No one deserves anything and, yet,

We are not living in a world devoid of satisfied desire;

You do not deserve love (as doesn’t anyone else) but you might be able to get it, because,

After all,

You either get love or you don’t.”

Haye Allah:

First of all, I cannot believe that I am sitting in an entirely dark, currently unused,

Sixth floor of some random tall building in Taksim,

Two queers (really, it’s just two guys/AMABs/kids with permission and indifference from their parents) are making out in the booth behind me,

Around 50, at least, are dancing to really sick fucking music on the 7th floor,

And, here I am (God has, it seems, already sent me on my way),

My legs outstretched, I am so comfortable, with a bewitching (read: BITCHIN’) view of Istanbul,

From, did I already mention, a sixth floor where-the-fuck-are-we building in Taksim that only

Honour could have casually led me to,

Getting told that the foundational assumption my politiks and intellect stem from might be

An innocent, but childish, fallacy that

Everyone (and, absolutely ANYone) deserves to be loved.

Secondly, what the fuck, I hope [he]’s not right, and what an absolutely chutiya move to just outright denounce that anyone might be less worthy (deserving or able, whatever, bitch) of

LOVE

than another human being, let alone,

a human being who might not carry proudly the lackluster belief that there are

economics to this practice of love,

scarcities within it,

time running out for it,

medical operations necessary to ask for it.

When we went back to the AirBnb,

I rolled us a spectacular Joint because [he] told me [he] does not like how weed makes

[him] feel but that [he] also does not like holding such an opinion/experience, and so

I rolled,

And [he] ran to make such a J possible —  takes three borrowed cigarettes, and only one lit, just in case you’re out of tobacco and aatish ever in the midst of rolling a J —  

But the weed was too heavily spliffed (in my opinion) and so it only worked to

tire us to fulfilment,

give maybe a humbling headache,

and force us finally to sleep.

Dear God, I’m tired.

I am tired of proving, of fighting, of “asserting,” of looking, of second-guessing,

Of blurting, of feeling uneasy.

I know what I know because I learned it and felt it but I have not practiced justifying it because the art of rhetoric is,

just like the arts of wit or passing, both tired

and tiring,

Kind of like a factory,

The sort of feeling that makes you make your language more practical,

Your flirtations planned,

Your eyes kind of hungry,

And it doesn’t matter embarrassment-caused if you willed it but bare your claws, to hell with embarrassment that I shall not will.

Honor said to me, and [she]’s a princess waiting to happen,

That sort of determination,

No Sufi has been ever able to prevent,

There are dancers in Lahore too,

And dancers on meds, operations, and identity politics in Amreeka too, But wide as ever the reach,

Of the hungry married man and his transgendered beloved,

right now in my DMs, right now on someone’s grindr,

right now on someone’s prostituted bed!

what did they say about the young girl’s lust who, what, was paid for:

no one can love you more,

and it will be beyond and before any politics

this whoring that i’ll do

and no matter my saleeqa, it’ll be whoring that i do,

and no if there’s a sexy boy in your eyes

a man in your mouth

and your limp-dick secession from what could have felt holy to you

and not kill you,

what could have been holy in you,

and not ask you kill you,

what could have been holy in [her],

and not mere confusion,

but when i bow down and say the name of the God you think you own,

the God i know i know,

These days, a lot of my mind's sentences feel fuzzy, as if they disappear into another idea, another fragment, constantly. I feel like a bad copywriter. Does Pakistan still have publishing houses? What could I do? I need to figure out how to look for a job. I'm definitely sleepy, tired, and bored a lot. It's not a perpetual feeling. I enjoy the wind on my face in the mornings. I like to sing in the streets. I dream of what life would be outside of here. I like the taste of food I make. I breathe in fog like I breathe in my Js. I laugh. I make laugh. I plan for and look forward to a lot of activity, often bookended as pitifully industrial weekends - maybe people coming in and out, someone's talking about the revolution, others are becoming or being it. If you're wasting time, you're winning. If you aren't able to, you feel like a child. Your desire to joy transcends responsibility. People don't keep on doing what they do not truly believe in. There are many perspectives in the world on belief. I believe we consent to people our beings but many folks contest that often we are only able to bargain surrenders. I don't believe that looking into the eyes of my lover in the bazaar will be good for me. I look on, and I wonder what goes on in madness? How so his eyes pierce me. Glitter. Sparkle. Reflection? Women lie when they say they could get lost in someone's eyes. As I know my eyes intimately, I know that there is barely any magic about them. I see what I see and I often do not see with a lot of concentration. Mostly, I gawk my eyes and shoot them in many million different directions within seconds to express confusion, invite explanation, or squander for relatability. Some kids play-pretend with their eyes, too. Lie about how they feel. Suggest ambiguity. Propose blindness. I want to walk through the bazaar in the night-time, and I want to be hearing music in the near distance. Shopkeepers closely, intimately whisper litanies about their wares and crafts. Eveything you have ever wanted could be found at the bazaar. But it's all made from and for the Earth. There are not many labels, though taste is recognizable always. There is no standardization, no mass-produced plastic, but there is always consistency. The rigor of the bazaar happens on the basis of love. 

People only do what they love. If they love it too much, they become merchants of it. They share it with others. Some people do magic too in the bazaar. Play with tech. If you are lucky enough to visit a stranger city or country's bazaar, you would do well to check out the tech. You could own eurekas, accidents, half-failed experiments. No one makes it because they have to, because the reality of the world requires them to.

Even the lover who looks at me in this utopia does not say much when he gets near me. I wish there were no pronouns. I mean them never. And I will also tell you that the lover I imagine even now looks like a man. Black shalwar-kameez. Nothing but the illusory spark in his eye. Maybe a moustache that just could not help it. Perhaps he is tall. I only need him to be sexy to me. I don't want to lie next to a body I don't know how to love because I am parched to feel loved at all, attempted to be loved, at all.

I don't believe in absolutes. I also don't believe in mean-spirited people. Sometimes, I feel like I could chastise anything. Sometimes, I do. I am most betrayed by myself when I feel vicious. Words, when sharp, feel precise. I do not believe if I deserve precision or needless joy anymore. Life, as hard and cruel as it appeared to be, was simply too safe. Others do not have access to this safety. This is not a death sentence for the 6-year-old I decided I remembered I loved. 

Yey jo qaum hai jo apney baapon ki tarhan banana chahti hai

Iss sey toh pyaar nahi hai

Unn khaandonon main jahan mummy raj hai

Beyshumaar hai, beyshumaar hai,

Pakistan don’t become a capitalist pig

at least keep lying

imran khan ur spokesman proclaiming Islamic socialism

at least keep lying

Pakistan don’t become a capitalist pig

Jhoot hi boltey raho.

We know India’s too far gone

Delhi has a Gucci store now

White girls visit the taj

White girls make YouTube videos

Pakistan don’t become a capitalist pig

Offer no white girls free hotel rooms or spa packages

Try to rebuild your relationship with Iran

Learn Farsi again

Go and ride the Metro-ye Tehran

Women find women to talk to, to assist

Bachon, you do the same.

Theek hai, let’s find a way out of this outside of US help

Karro cancel aid, inhi paison key neechey philusteen dabba hua hai.

Nahi chahiye.

Pakistan don’t become a capitalist pig

Or an army general’s awful decision

Or lose yourself in the lie of immi k philosophy

I want a bandi for prime minister

I want mummy to be prime minister

I want there to be no prime minister

Pakistan don’t become a capitalist pig

We are so near the end

Educate house feed the poor

Educate house feed the rich

Every huge shaadi every maarty could have mandatory public service

If we can’t have a new metro service

Localise industries and markets and commerce and education

Localise ur whole damn dil

Why the fuck should I go from johar town to defence anyway

build an Aitchison in every gaon

This time welcome the girls and the khusras with open arms

Kya faida gor’on key syllabus ka?

Bachon ko khooni darinday bananey key liye toh nahi paida kia tha na.

Pakistan, what is Pakistan even?

This teesra tukra, of what once was so together, every one in their own dhun,

In the same tamasha.

Pakistan don’t be a capitalist pig,

Kya faida?

Baarish bhi zehreeli hogayee iss dunya ki.

Which is to say, beauty.

Which is to say, badsoorati.

Which is to say, beauty.

Lots of people think 

that it has to be PRETTY to work,

or live,

or POSE!

Yet there are ugly people

on this Earth.

Some of us are like insects. And I’m not sure I hate that. My best friend used to collect ladybugs. My mom wouldn’t let us be afraid of cockroaches.

I always had a particular fascination with spiders.

If God is One, Allah,

if Allah is One cause Allah is One,

so is the Universe, to no matter which diversity.

So then why are we in twos?

Can a binary also be a one: you and me?

Boy and girl?

Lover and beloved?

Ugly and pretty?

I’ll ask some Sufi,

He’s read many men, he should know.

I told myself starting grade 9,

that maybe I was the one

who had an ugly childhood – I was both arrogant

and very humble but won so many awards in school

that I reflected that I could be the ugly, succesful boy.

Fuck vanity, I’m not obnoxious. I didn’t know then that I wasn’t in fact

a boy at all (no one ever really is, to be honest, but I’ll let you bitches figure that out on your own speed, yeah?)

A lot of people believe that

it has to be PRETTY to work,

or live,

or POSE!

Yet I started wearing crop tops when

I was just 18. And stopped looking at cameras

shy at 20. A lot of people believe

whatever they want to/have to believe

– and it’s a pity –

they talk about taverns and wine as if it’s a fucking joke,

You’ll say anything.

Hmm? Haan, yaar, tum toh kuch bhi keh detey ho?

Whipped in air, drunken swirl

do you know God looks at you

in awe?

I do too. You never notice anything

Conjure such beautiful shit

In an accident or two,

you’ll say anything.

“Kya kar rahi ho?”

Yaar, yeh poocho kyun kar rahi hoon.

Kyun kar rahi hoon?

Dude, pata nahi.

Tumhari pehli poem main toh

kitna dukh tha? Sadness is for the suckers, babe,

Do you wanna come with me?

I do, but not now.

My lover waits for me.

And I know you say my lover doesn’t:

But my lover waits for me.

Some things you can’t say

to strangers of another language.

This city of stars knows little of me, 

Oh, fuck it, bro, even I know little of me,

And you know so definitely,

Want to know empirically

Yes and no binary

Are you waiting for me?

(Kya kar rahi ho?)

I don’t know yet.

THE AZAADI MANIFESTO - JANUARY 2019

Assalam-o-Alaikum, mera naam Zulfiqar Suhail Mannan hai and this is my Azaadi manifesto.

January 2019.

From Lahore, Pakistan,

Merey instagram key ye naqsh zara gaur se dekh, meri jaan.

Is mein tujhey shayed aik daur ki tarikh nazar ayegi.

Mummy hain na,

Mummy kehti hain bhool jao,

maan jao na yaar:

Yahan kon kya bigarr paya hai?

Thorra smart tareekay sey

navigate karo.

Ab tum barrey hogaye ho.

Kitna mera bhi dil karta tha aik zamaney main,

larr larr key, barr barrh key

jis marzi sey chirrh key

azaad panchion ki tarhan phirroon gi.

But the political reality of Pakistan, I swear,

aagay jaaney hi nahi deti,

hamesha thora sa yaad rakhti hai.

Yaad toh rakhti hai, bro, yaad toh rakhti hai.

Woh launda tumhey party per tumhari uss snapchat key baarey main zaroor yaad karwaye ga,

tumharey barrey bhai key doston ko tumhari sari shit bataye ga.

merey barrey bhai key dost buhat achay hain. 

bol chaal naa bhi dikhti ho toh dil leftist leaning hi hain.

Yaad toh rakhtey hain, bro, yaad toh rakhtey hain.

The social reality of Pakistan has suggested,

tumhara khayaal shayaal rakh key hi,

that the only way forward is to fear:

teen dafa socho,

dou dafa apni peeth peechay dekho,

aur aik dafa hoshiari main, mera bacha, buss rehney dou na.

Beta, chorr do yey zidd.

dunya sey nahi larr pao gi.

ghalat kadmon key saamney buhat embarassingly girr jao gi.

burri burri nazron sey kaisey bach pao gi

arrey amma jaan, yaar, azaadi key liye toh main marr bhi jaoon gi.

aik dafa taste ki thi, 

only once

aur itni kasam khai thi sab key saamney keh shayed chakh key yey azaadi

waapis aajaon gi,

araam sey,

dil behla loon gi.

lekin ab kya bataoon, merey naraaz dost,

nahi hota oye,

dil nahi manta

dil yain machata.

political reality sheality ki consideration toh saala

samajh main hi nahi aata.

kehtey hain na, ma;

keh hamaray doston ney toh beybunyad 

si aik azaadi key chakkron main,

kya kya jurm kardiye.

14 August 1947 ko azaadi key silsilay main 

saarey harami, kuttey, scoundrels mairey yaaron ney

apney zaati dil torr diye.

Inqilaab Zindabad, maa:

is half-zindagi key liye toh nahi larrey they hum.

iss taalay sey mujhey nafrat hogayee hai

aur aap fazool main meray pinjaray pey

Pakistan Mahaan ka label laga deti hain.

Yey zulm hai, bro, yey zulm hai

aur issmain kaanoon key peechay qaazi ka hath hai

aurat-mard ki haari hui baazi ka hath hai,

Inn sarrkon ki saari history main

Inn larrkon ki zameendari ka hath hai.

Chalo, phir. Ab jo hogaya so hogaya, bhaee

Ronay dhonay ki toh addad purani hogayee hai. Ab toh naach gaana kartey hain,

thori party sharty banatey hain

inn chutiyon key surr phirratey hain

aur apna favorite tamasha in saaron key baapon ko bhi dikhatey hain.

Lagta toh hai darr darling, phattthi bhi hai; 

am I a 100% sure about it?

Not particularly.

Am I a 100% about to do it? Pretty fucking definitely.

Beghairati hai toh beghairati hai, yaara,

tunney hi toh kaha tha pehley. 

Agar marein gey toh bhaagtey marein gey,

Larrein gey toh pyaar sey larrein gey.

azaadi key liye toh, dost,

dil bhi phaenk dein gey.

kyunkey, bro; 

aik baat bataon?

ab ya main marr rahi hoon,

ya main bhaag rahi hoon.

or aik secret share karoon?

jis ko batana hai batadey;

barra maza aaraha hai yaar dil-e-azaad ho key,

or marney sharney ka koi mahaul hi nahi bann raha.

"Kabhi kabhi jeetne ke liye kuch harna bhi padta hai, ma,

 aur haar kar jeetne wale ko baazigar kehte hai."

Azaadi ki jang larr rahein hain hum. 

Thora bach key rahiye ga. 

Ghar pey taala laga dou, kaala burqa pehna dou 10 daafa ooncha boley tou 11 dafa chup karwa dou. Shop walay uncle ko personally barri fikar hai,  meri izzat or kapron ki dono. Tabhi Always pads in a brown shopper or peet peechay kamar pey nazar. Tumhey apni puberty pey toh kitna naaz hai, chotu. Kitney barrey mard ban gaye ho. Magar meri puberty awaara hai, beypardah hai, buhat zanana hai. Chahtay ho key Periods key baarey main bilkul baat na keroon  magar tumhari mid-Ramadan saari interrogations ka jawab doon,  Agar khafa hoon tumsey toh shaayed koi wajah ho yaar, School jaati hoon, parhthi likhti hoon, koi toh samajh hoyegi But tum keh do barri asaani sey keh larai toh hoti, merey periods key hi duraan har baar.

Merey haath perr dou lareekain hai, ma I’ve been tracing them all my life

Aik aap ki, aik meri And I follow each one in my head every night Aik aap key liye, aik apney but in the morning, I think I often remember dil sey aik meri asliyat, aik aapkey sapney

Mera buss chaley na, maa, toh main sab bhool jaoon: Apni zindagi ko aap ki khuwaahish key qadmon pey barrhaoon Aap ki zubaan, aap key dil ki dhun pey nachaoon Mera buss chaley, maa, toh main bilkul badal jaoon Aap key sapnon key aks ko galley lag jaoon Aap ki expectations ki spectacular heroine bunn key aoon Beghair jhumkon key sab ka sirr phirraoon Apni durd şey yoon darr na jaoon Mera buss chaley toh main sachi main sab bhool jaoon; Daadi ki badtameezi full ignore karoon, Aap ki disappointment main apni shakal na dhoondoon Kisi tarhan sey apney dil ko puhanchaoon sakoon Sabun sey apney kharrey rang ko maanjna chorr doon.

Merey haath perr dou lareekain hai, ma, aur aik bhi Maya ka peecha nahi karti. Aik aapki zindagi key mukaam per ishara karti hai, aur aik sharma key kuch bhi bolti nahi, aur aik bhi mujhey batati nahi, keh merey rang-o-insaan sey kyun cheeni gayee iss mulk ki pasandeeda gene, beybunyaad badmazgi, rangon ki yey badtameezi, Barrey Sagheer ki hypocrisy Key I couldn’t be pak and I’ll never be saaf Because I don’t deserve to be Pak in Pakistan

Meinay bhi bola hai, jhoot nahi boloon gi: woh boy kitna saaf lagta hai, dil shayed shafaaf ho sakta hai, Meinay bhi maa’na hai, uss ka rang kitna saaf hai attitude uss pey maaf hai

aur kitni cheating hai na, kitni na-insaafi hai key apney liye nafrat, aur gorrey gaalon key liye maafi hai?

Jab main choti si thi, meri iss anjaan beqarari main khoob qarar tha. main subah subah sheeshay ko avoid karti thi aur foran naha key apney chehray pey ghorr karti thi. kitni saaf lag rahi hoon aaj, saari gandagi dhulla di. magar iss optimism ki dhajjiyan har roz urrthi thi: tu kitni kaali, kitni gandi kitni khaali teri aqalmandi. saari self-perception saalon ney mitti main mila di. itni kaali, itni gandi, hai gehri kitni yey pabandi.

aur athaaran saal lagi rahi, ma, but yey rang hai keh dhulta hi nahi. ka’im hai mera rang, yey saanwli lakeer — terey peechay, peechay lagi rehti hai magar phir bhi yoon is dil main koi naraazgi rehti hai, teri taqdeer keh khilaaf namanzoori behti hai.

I’m lost in my pink Halloween

haunted haus of Gaga;

coked up

and drunk, finally

coked up

and fun

on the bright Friday lights weekend that I always kind of wanted.

the punks have even changed their ways, here:

they’re singing Shallow, loud and gay:

“Look at her, she saved heterosexuality.”

Look at all that

and how she still couldn’t save me!

I want to make my self into a raggedy old

rich and gold

chiffon dupatta of Mummy:

I think I’ll be in pain forever, na, and I know some of it is all in my head

When it hits me, that I am here, I can almost never fathom it but keep Walking forward because it is good to Have a destination in this city — Without one you are helpless And it’s so much better to be alone Than at mercy.

I’ve quite never believed in that, nor it Seems my infantile inadequacy will ever let me. I want to have a lot of silent meals, A lot of peaceful confinement solitary, To forget my dirty addiction of feeling the sharpness On my throat and let it not kill me.

I ask you to conjure me at your feet, For no kindness is worth purchase for the one You might extend to me, head under your polished boot; I want to win you with my eyes, You would never hurt something that you understood, would you? Or would you? So prideful proven me wrong.

I text back a girlfriend her roof collapses regularly, One is tied in chains and leases to her queendom & a city, The magic man disappearing, tired final tricks repeat The same argument between him and me, the same our worlds never concede fully

Mummy I try so much to secede but I’m trapped, I think I was never really let go: But I swear I’m working two jobs of no need, homework with excellence and intrigue in routine I have five whole entire classes in my palms, I caress them perfectly I’m trying, I’m trying so well, Mummy, Why won’t passersby try with me?

Woh saamney waalon ki larki hai na, Zoya? Raat ko gaari main beththi hai, waapis hi nahin aati.

Barri beghairat hai, Allah maaf karey, barri beghairat hai.

When I was 17, my best friend told me to not wear my Lady Gaga t-shirt to a chota sa get together.

Merey bhai or uskey dost hon gey, awaien tumhari bund maarein gey.

Baat toh uski bilkul sahi thi magar meri samajh sey thori baahir;

Bund kyun maarein gey? Lun pey nahi charhthay?

It’s a Lady Gaga shirt, I’lll wear it fucking everyday.

But kher I didn’t wear it that Wednesday and forgot about it, muted my gay

Made chummy with the big boys to smoke a few Js,

I smoked a few Js, confused purrey dil sey keh

This is the entirety of fun promised? the Falcon main cruising, the boys beer boozing,

I was taught to straighten back, heavy my voice and yes, still subtly, to mute my little gay

Because have you heard about the gashtiyan and the kanjariyan, these Lahoris would say.

Aitchisonian friendships are all boys, the girls are nothing but our toys —

You take one out at a farewell afterparty, I’ll take one on the drunk ride back and phir

Issey pehlay keh gets attached, I’ll tell all my boys her pussy trash:

I sound like Post Malone or Eminem at best, don’t know how big is yey taste test

She’s an ugly gashti yaar, buhat time waste.

Beghairati hai.

Which LAS boy killed which bitch driving drunk after a Model Town shindig?

Which of them escaped and which of them stayed? Beghairati hai.

Which new boy says that loose moral larki raped them yesterday?

I was so fucked man, woh charh gayee merey pay. Beghairati hai.

Barra bhai is studying at Queen Mary and chota wants McGill,

No one fought for the distinction scoring bhehan, larkion key liye LUMS fits the bill.

Tum 30 saala kojay ban jao toh business aur bachi tumhari,

Hashtagged wedding with the 16 saala “heard she’s a beghairat” kawaari.

Boy key saath barra hand hua, woh rave pey jaa key puking galore

Bachi dying on a roofied drink, what a fucking stupid whore

He cheated on her for two whole years, boy was horny but so in love

She made out with that loser once, dirty filthy ugly slut

Ammi I’m going to stay the night, drunk drive all over the streets

Don’t you think it’s dangerous for aapa to drive home alone as a 2AM feat?

Feminism’s a joke, yaar, like everything else these so called women condone

Humari maa ko dekho, sacrificed everything for the home.

Crop top pehna, what a chutiya!

Ghar late aayi, how ghatiya?

Make up sey randi full obsessed, look at me i was my gym’s most overdressed.

But kher, buhat hogaya. Mera tumhara phadda nahi hai.

Don’t you dare tell me what the rules are, call me a chakka or whatever you’ve got

Meri jaan merey boy we don’t play the same game a lot, maybe bhenchod not at all.

Toh party pey toh jaana hai, dance bhi maachod karna hai

Gaana mainey bajana hai, naach bhi dekhana hai

If I need your brawn to hold the flicker light,

I’ll counsel you how to hold your liquor right.

Mesh wali crop top toh meri dost pehan rahi hai,

Highlighter toh main laga raha hoon.

Just like you, she might slut it out

If you’ve got a chull, shut it out.

Saari baajiyon ko bata doh key unki sharafat nahi maang rahay hum;

Hongay hoe, hongay gashti but tumhari zaat ko honi nahi chahiye problem.

Kurrion ki tarhan tumhari izzat utaroon ga, haan merey jigger:

Beghairati hai, toh beghairati hai.

Saarey boyz ka naam mitti main mila doon gah, yes my champ:

Beghairati hai, toh beghairati hai.

Saarey raaz tumharay khulwa doon ga:

Beghairati hai, toh beghairati hai.

Aitchison main rape kar key dikah, apni history bana keh dekha,

Yain machani hai toh yain hai, embarassing details hazaar hain, sun merey naraaz dost:

Beghairati hai, toh beghairati hai.

Meri dost Zoya hai na, she just likes to have fun. She also likes to write, roam the raat.

Her interests and wants were probably never a feminist propaganda, more so dil ki baat.

Woh apni Uber khud bulati hai, harr party pey puhanch jaati hai.

Holds for me my flicker light, teaches me how to hold my liquor right.

Taught me how to Kanye rap and mix magic with my own two hands.

Hates when she has to tell her friends to cover up cause the men around won’t do the same with their lies,

But I’ve seen her scare the launda type with the bat of her loving eyes

Meri dost Zoya hai na, gaari main bheththi hai, kabhi waapis nahi aati:

Jee haan beghairait hai, toh beghairati hai.

Nahi boloon ga main deeper, nahi ugaa raha main daari,

Watch me fucking fight this city driving in my gaari.

Phel dena hai, tey, phel dai! Phir, uth jayein gey.

Thappar maaray ga, teh maar ley. Phir, beghairat bunn jayein gey.

Baad main jo bhi hona hogay, woh merey pey chorr dey tu.

i don’t have a lot of money left but i clutter my thoughts with half made-up financial problems & consequences i can wish away with a dirty, confessional phone call back home. day 1 i spend thinking of you, i tell myself that i can and your emotional sovereignty has nothing to do with me and that if you don’t know, you are not harmed. by midnight, i have cried myself to lousy naps and thought myself out of enjoying hot showers. at 1 am, the only option is to spend the waking hours before a sleep sleep not a nap sleep reminding myself that if you don’t know then you probably don’t care and that this stubborn nostalgia of a you that definitely existed and a you that’s so hard to meet these days has only ended up hurting me. emotional sovereignty my ass. i think of Obama-era Obama and the NSA and Snowden and the shitty doc they made about him and my 9th grade best friend’s two younger sisters and i punch the wall where i stored your tiny letter, yelling privacy, privacy, I WANT MY PRIVACY OVER YOUR SECURITY because can I at least have something that’s mine? i get neither and now there’s a hole in my Hopper dorm, the cost of which the form says will be a shuffling $100 at the end of the semester. i don’t have a lot of money left.

in ny, i wonder if i have a lot of friends. there it is. if no one to love, none to be friends with, yeah? all or nothing i have seen the world in. i snuggle next to Ayesha and make eyes at Mo across the room. Mummy talks about Mary and Casey FaceTimes for which I get up from across the room to not miss it. i am a liar, i am well-loved and still i am not with you.

they are trying to find breathing, fighting, recklessly loving life all over space. life like planets has the power to move stars. it’s true. not by a lot but just a little though that little is enough to make our industrial curiosity capture the movement. they think if we see enough stars moving just a little because of a planet, gravity in rebellion to the human-conditional loneliness we so cherish, we can find another Earth. that’s what the goal is like, finding a planet with an Earth-like mass, an Earth-like distance from the star, an Earth-like everything. isn’t it so funny, i tell you in my head. they too are looking for someone just like them, to forever undo the forever isolation of being the Earth, with one discovery. i want to tell Professor Fischer to be careful. what if exo-Earth isn’t into other Earths?

what if we make exo-Earth realize that there are other Earths just like it and it is still trapped in the prehistoric charm & peace of religion, of oneness, of peculiarity and the freedom of being unique? what if exo-Earth gets mad at us and go into hiding? what if it does not have the technology to understand us? what if the politicians of exo-Earth keep us a secret from its people and what if its people want to find our companionship but we are never allowed to extend it?

maybe we should let it stay with its star, Professor Fischer, and maybe your life’s work will be complete in the knowledge that statistics and probability probably mean another Earth just like ours. though I personally know she will never listen to me, or anyone else. there is too much wisdom behind those eyes, fueling that humor and protecting that laugh. in that I will never understand her. you see, the likes of such astronomical badassery is beyond the grasp of our heteropatriarchal translation. it is escaping the ability to understand desire, to understand how easy or respectful & admirable it is to control desire. i want to yell at her, out of nothing but love and care and a bitterhonest heart, to not go to the garden, that i went and licked the apple and it only brought hurt, hurt, hurt and a lot of resentment. but i know what people like her do even though I’ve also spent a lifetime trying and failing to understand how they do what they do. i know she’ll shrug me off and make meticulous notes on the sizes of the apples, their red hues and the oddities of their wormy bruises. why the apples swing a certain way when it is windy on a certain day and what trees breed what kind of apples and whether an apple is meant to be left hanging to extinction or if it’s meant to be caressed, kissed & taught to let be taught.