Another prose poem.

The Good Posh Woman

We exist because of what we say. I say a little. Does that mean I exist only a little?

My dad, like a human engine, works at a printer. He’s never worked at a publisher before. He says the work is fine, but the ink is bad. In the mornings, mother always complains about the stains. My dad, like me, has got a little to say.


On a Friday night party, the good posh woman with wrinkled breasts tells me she’ll vote for Bibeksheel-Sajha Party and wishes Rabindra Mishra the nomination.

Her bedroom is littered with stockings, camisoles, panties, slippers, silk handkerchiefs, used condoms, cigarette ends, and other testimonies of a feminist life at night. At parties, like a loitering heir of modernism, she talks politics.

I stare at the mirror to get lonely—I fail. Thirsty to see myself failing, I walk into the bar and almost drown myself on beer.

The good posh woman at the party, who’ll vote for the young foreign-returned, somewhat handsome man, smiles when she tells me how lucky I am to be young (and alive). The glitter of her jewels rises to meet my eyes. Against the vials of colored glasses, her image prolongs like fattening of candle flames.

How many newspapers does she think my dad has printed? She might drive a Volkswagen, stop at the mad Kathmandu traffic, and lazily read something my dad makes. She says, ‘You’re lucky.’ She tries to be polite.

‘You read the words, but you don’t see my dad’s face on them,’ I say to myself.

Footsteps shuffle on the stairs. Upon the withered planks of time, debauched and exhausted faces scuttle, lean out of the windows, feel a stirring in their loins, and move their hips like old pendulum clocks. The yellow light inside the room forks like a tedious argument. A horse-like neigh, a hideous laughter rings in my ears. Starved yet satiated, my drunkenness is already diminishing.

I do not dare disturb the universe, not even theirs. Should I wriggle on the floor, and spit out all the hatred of my life? Or should I go out at dusk through the narrow streets with a knife in my hand, and hack and slash my own cigarette paper like heart?

A waiter clumsily pushes himself through the kitchen door carrying a plate of Dim Sum. A song flutters through the Shalimar scented air. Ed Sheeran sings Shape of You. His nasal-sexy voice makes me ill. I vomit.

The good posh woman mutters, ‘Oh dear!’ in her best (fake) British accent. ‘You’re lucky—it’s all out,’ she says. Lucky once again. She waits for me to thank her. I form some words in my mind, open my mouth—only a low moan-like ‘ohhh’ escapes.

Does that mean I exist only in monosyllables?

Bibek Adhikari

Poetry by Bibek
Read 215 times
Written on 2017-12-09 at 13:34

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
I've read this many times. Each time brings something new. It is intriguing with beguiling and even brilliant lines. This fine writing.


Ala Miriam
Bravo! It's imaginative.

I love it. I have sent the edited version on facebook. Do what thou wilt

Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
One of my favourite moments is the wry characterization "like a loitering heir of modernism"! This is fine work, Bibek. Thanks for sharing!

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
The exotic images and story kept me transfixed. I am still thinking about the question: " We exist because of what we say. I say little. Does that mean I exist only little?"