Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry

Srijan Banerjee

Remembering J


He came with a gun in his hand

Found a mirror, painted it red and

broke it

The grey walls were damp with songs

That reflected all that he never found

His shadow crumbled into a mistake


He looked up to see an ageing roof that

Would be changing soon

Changes that consume thoughts and blood and smoke from unknown fires

Every burning window is a door.


The dialogue had cracked open

And the rain killed what was left to lose

And there’s some long forgotten irony

In the blinding light of the sun

He could not seek an answer to

"What about what I want?"


The clock stopped way before the time

was right

And in the remnants of the story

He found the compass and the drug.

Then slowly putting the gun to his head

He shot himself to stay alive.


Life is short.

The bullet was never found.






The Tunnel

He found a home in the hole

Where darkness comes to hide

The aroma of ammonia

And the putrid smell of love

Slowly melting into something

In his mind


He marked the spot upon the wall

Where memories were made

He asked her what she thought of the rain

She lit a match and burnt the map

“We are all instruments of hate”


The forgotten lizard that reeked of hope

Reminded him of plans

To conquer Syria and paint the moon

On all the ships of war

Dreams sound good on paper

Till it’s time to show your hand


Iceland had a Viking past

It didn’t survive

Like Soviet Russia

They all left behind capsules of dirt

In the hole where darkness came to hide


And his legs had long stopped moving.






Follow me home tonight

And burn the darkness

Of your moon

While you look for freedom

In the void of my wine glass


Follow me home tonight

Or somewhere else filled with

Frozen spiders worshipping

The web and raindrops

That drown nothing


Follow me home tonight

And let us light a cigarette

In memory of those who died

Way before they got killed


Follow me home tonight

And put a song in my violin

For the broken opera

That performs for thieves and lovers


Follow me home tonight

So that we remain strangers

Under the sun.








It was the summer of heroes

Lost and found

Turned around

Brittle but unbroken

With fire in their pockets

And rain clouds in their eyes

Little drops of purple hopes

Were washed away by sin


It was the summer of sinners

Melodies dried

They never tried

To salvage one another

With magic locked in bottles

Long forgotten by those who never discovered anything


It was the summer of lovers

Under the hill

She’s waiting still

For letters, knives and blood

He found the cure

Written on the wall

Beside the map of the world


And the heroes sinned

And the sinners loved

And soon it was December

The summer came

And the summer went

But it was a summer to remember.



Project Medusa

The vitals are stable

A stone heart, no blood

Green venom, red eyes

Black face, blank memory

Three hundred twenty-two days

And the purple skin is just for show


A glass room, a white bed

A wet pillow, a grey window

The door is locked from inside

The monster is ready

The proverbial Frankenstein

On monsoon cocaine


Nobody knew her, everybody will.





Molecular Ambulance

“It’s for safety”


And some other little problems, frozen in glass.


Stuck between where you are and where you want to be.


To and fro in D major.


The siren swings. Monochrome. Vibrato.


Pulse beats. Sixteenth notes.


Make way. Flow. Stop. Pass.


Ice melts. Blood clots. Breathe.


It’s always safe in a four-by-four.





About the poet

Srijan has been composing poetry irregularly for the last 3 years. He writes under the name “Boomzah” on his Wordpress blog and his creativity is greatly inspired by Andy Warhol, Leonard Cohen, Porcupine Tree and Salvador Dali. He takes a keen interest in music and plays drums, percussions and bass. He also likes to collect different varieties of coffee from around the world. Srijan is a banker by profession, and currently residing in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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Published by The Alternative.