i remember the first time [free verse/lyric/dub poetry]

i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
a colonizing moment is what i'd called it
that was the first time i'd let you
or anyone for that matter
fuck me enter me penetrate me
colonize me colonize my body colonize my soul
(colonize my love?)

you entered me with with a lack of might
your lack of conviction pinned me down
with the softness of your arms and the strength of your skin
you swayed on top of me
like a cherry shaking in fear
shaky shaky shaky
scared scared scared
of sliding off the top of this mount of melting cream
i wanted to scream scream scream at you
and beg beg beg you
to hurt me
to plant your seed deeper in me

i often think of power dynamics
but not in an academic foucaultian way
i think of the thin line between love and hate
the thin line between pleasure and pain

on that day I saw myself in your eyes
in fragments
detached and yet attached
deeply rooted in a disturbed mirror
i think of your heat inside me
i think of it as a loving moment
i think of it as a colonizing moment
i think of it as an orgasm an orgasm an orgasm

an orgasm that never came

i know it's been two years and yet
i go from ghost town to ghost town
i travel and i yearn
like a corpse that didn't get buried
i think of your hair between my teeth,
(you remember your hair between my teeth?)
i think of the mess we created,
the havoc of cum and lube we smudged in between our sticky bodies
i think of the violence with which i bit your nipples
the loving ways in which you clamped my ears
i think of power dynamics not just in an academic foucaultian way

i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
i had wrapped myself in your skin
i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
you had graciously unwrapped my love gift skin
i remember the wetness
i yearn for the love
i remember the warmth
i yearn for the harm

but above all

i yearn for the white cock that colonized my black body

On Privacy, Blogging Settings and New Features [at The Queer Behind the Mirror]

So here we go, I am officially back to regular blogging schedules and practices. But before we move on, with fragments of mirrors tightly packed in the darkness of a queer blogging-bag, here are the new rules and protocols:

I spent a considerable amount of time looking into privacy settings and private matters last week. I guess the need to officially distinguish between the real me and my blog persona reached its finality after months of thinking and deliberating. This is how it is as from now on:

a-- The blog is still called The Queer Behind the Mirror;

b-- The author of the blog is now called Amak and all previous entries that didn't feature the name Amak have now been altered;

c-- The couple of real names that were present on the blog have now been removed and/or altered;

d-- The blogger behind this blog now has the following e-mail address: thequeerbehindthemirror [at] gmail.com (which means you can-- and should-- contact Amak!);

e-- Finally, the Picasa albums have now been made private.

With time. I hope that my real name will get totally erased from online content. I would request, whenever possible, to refer to the blog and the blogger behind the blog as The Queer Behind the Mirror and Amak respectively.

New (and hopefully exciting) features on the blog:

a-- Blogger came out with new layouts and templates; since the blog was on packing-moving mode, I decided to play around with colors and designs: so what do you think of the new look of the blog?

b-- I have upgraded the use of Feedburner to cater to many more needs and desires: you may now share, subscribe, comment etc. and do so more easily and on more networking sites directly from your reader;

c-- Would you rather receive the posts from the blog directly in your e-mail inbox? You now have the option to simply sign up with your e-mail address and the posts will be delivered in your inbox directly. [Disclaimer: This is your choice and that's an option you will have to deactivate yourself if you feel the need to! Do NOT accuse me of spamming you if I tend to post 4 times in a day!];

d-- There are now two new links under the heading of "Recent Photo Albums." Having made my albums private, you can now still check out the latest two that had been put up in case you missed them and/or want to see them again-- just click on the links;

e-- The share this button under each post is still there. The exciting part that has been added is that you can now give your anonymous point of view on any post by hitting on either one of the following tabs: 'likes this', 'does not like this', 'agrees', & 'disagrees'. Now, that should be fun, shouldn't it?!

Of course, should you have any comments, suggestions, anything you like (or don't), want to see changed, want to see in a different light etc. you now have an e-mail address where to reach me. 

So that's it for now. To come: Albums from Mauritius, the last snippets that never got posted and maybe I'll even tell you about my new summer love(r)s! 

;-)

Oh, oh, oh... And in July The Queer Behind the Mirror celebrates its 3rd! Don't you think we should celebrate this?

Rock-Paper-Scissor [free verse]

When we were in school, they taught us to play

Rock-Paper-Scissor. They instructed us

to fold, unfold and display. The same game

I now play in quite different milieu.

It's now gloved and oiled that my fingers twist,

that my thumb touches the rim round your wrist,

And it's with fingered Rock-Paper-Scissor

that I now pierce into you, knowingly,

having been a child quick to learn the game.

I often think of Rock-Paper-Scissor.

Not only during our endless morning-

evening frolics, not only when I want

to penetrate you, go still deeper to

find the vulnerability in you;

I also think of Rock-Paper-Scissor

when we play the sadomasochistic

game of love; after I come in you with

my hands: when you flatten my heart under

your rock and I cut yours with a scissored

heart. I hear fingered blades chop, slice, slit, mince

in me; my paper heart crumbles like an

aluminum foil that wriggles and tears:

crisped crusted crushed: Rock-Paper-Scissor-Heart.

Colonial Mimicry and One More Quote from 'Sea of Poppies'

I might have some mild form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), but I normally try not to stay too neurotically fixated on certain things-- not even ex-lovers who were outstanding in bed. (I know you could possibly argue that all fixations are neurotic, which is why they are called fixations.) I have posted quotes from Amitav Ghosh's masterpiece of a novel Sea of Poppies twice before: here and here. What I am about to post here is a tad different in tone, for I find it hilarious, but besides the comic element, this has a certain theoretical undertone that is of importance for post- (possibly anti-) colonial thinking. 

I should probably give some context first. This scene unfolds in colonial India in the 1830s. Raja Neel Rattan is a king who has been trained in English letters. Mr Doughty is a rowdy colonizer who clearly does not like a native who reads British poetry and he looks down upon such colonized subjects who try to imitate the colonizers' wit by appropriating their language. This interaction takes place as Mr Doughty and other members of his party are visiting Raja Neel Rattan's sluggish boat:

"None of the visitors had been on the Rashkali budgerow before, so they accepted readily when Neel offered them a tour of the public parts of the barge. On the upper deck they came upon Raj Rattan, who was flying kites by the moonlight. Mr Doughty made a harrumphing sound when the boy was introduced: 'Is this little Rascal your Upper-Roger, Raja Nil-Rotten?'

'The upa-raja, yes' Neel nodded. 'My sole issue and heir. The tender fruit of my loin, as your poets might say.'

'Ah! Your littles green mango!' Mr Doughty shot a wink in Zacahary's direction. 'And if I may be so bold to ask-- would you describe your loin at the stem or the branch?'

Neel gave him a frosty glare. 'Why, sir,' he said coldly, 'it is the tree itself.'"

[Page 112]

Of course, the interaction is hilarious and Neel's wit is excruciatingly funny. Besides the comic element, however, the outwitting the colonizer by a colonized subject, in the colonizer's own language is pertinent to say the least. As theorized by Homi Bhabha in The Location of Culture, colonial mimicry involves the colonizer's need to educate the colonized in such a way as to render them more 'civilized' and 'educated'. However, this process demands that the colonized peoples be kept 'barbaric' enough and 'ignorant' enough such that they do not question the authority of the colonizing power. In other words, the stakes lie in making the colonized subject almost the same, but not quite.

In this particular narrative, we learn that "the old Raja [Neel's father] had always got on well with Englishmen, even though he spoke their language imperfectly and had no interest in their books. As if to compensate for his own limitations, the Raja had hired a British tutor for his son, to make sure that he had a thorough schooling in English. (...) But far from putting him at ease in the society of Calcutta's Englishmen, Neel's education had served exactly the opposite. (...) [T]he British colonials of the city, who tended to regard refinements of taste with suspicion, and even derision-- and never more so than when they were evinced by native gentlemen." [Page 91] Or as Mr Doughty himself had put it earlier, "see, if there's one thing I can't abide it's a bookish native." [Page 50]

I see this moment not one of fantastic hilarity, but also as something of a witty victory of the Indian native over the colonizer: sheer brilliance!

Words From Behind the Mirror

"The most depressing part about packing is that you know when you'll unpack-- empty what you've filled, unfold what you've folded-- you'll be in a different place, in a different time, and your then empty suitcase will carry the weight of the past: a bittersweet heft to fondly reminisce, yet heavy enough that it'll drag you down."

-- The Queer Behind the Mirror

[Mauritius, May 2010]

Dandelion [pictures]

I took the two pictures above whilst working around my backyard in Peterborough yesterday. (Yes, I am back in Peterpatch.) It's gone beyond the Spring here, with a summer akin to the Indian Summer that melts my muscles and lubricates my skin with never-ending sweat. In the air, dandelion parachutes take their jumps around town, sinking into the earth of our skin, hair and clothes looking for a permanent home where they could grow...