Inter-Services Intelligence

Matthew Moore

Partitions are worn, swadddled in heat’s berth, to wooden veils, by
Each colonial department’s rail compartment's usage.
Scrubbed of mud, clothes hull of silica and orange peels, inside every
Allibhoy Vallijee and Sons valise
Colored palm green,
Over-mixed by a small thwarted hand with
Humidity’s blackening cyan Easter day sky.
Before, and after, a separatist exploded a bomb on a near omnibus,
People spit, second nature to you, patience.
The had time’s second hand deliberates the casualties. Naipauline.
Very Superior Old Pale deliberates a time had. The rats and jackals
Complain the cheese split,
They masticate, to swallow it, to stifle
The sob with laughter. O
Patience. O Line of Control. Shiftless. Totalitarianism hugs theories.
Everyone sounds forced to carry the amalgamated tune.
Grafted to parties, fiercly pruned as gardened by youth’s extremities.
The circumstances
Of birth reduce perception to something
That can house. Prejudice’s malcostracan.
The circumstances
Of birth conduce inception for anything
That can espouse prejudice’s malediction.
The world you get
Is what operatives
And whalers had, long before post-colonialism,
Pinged, the engine
Tarries on the coast of abandon. Footfalls echo. These borders are
Tidal. Open firelights. Jammu and Kashmir. Blasted
To the same nowhere as a place itself ambushed by dear Naxalites.

To the Maoists of Chhattisgarh, the forest of the heart,
Despite security forces, mobilized to strike it,
Cordon and destroy it, bisect it, set fires to consume it,

Deforest and process it, into poles, to push, washrooms,
To hide, rail ties, to transport, the excrement,
From one area to another, a blur, has fled into the heart.

Imported financial instruments blast palm oil clearings,
Improvised explosive devices play out a song,
Inspired by the means of production, to come with me.

Roadwork, subjugated to checkpoints, systems various
As weather, Black villenage, tarmac patriated
Against Bourbon roses, and the ports lay a cumulation

Enfeoffed by redistribution to populations, land mass,
Services, and cash. Against such mercenarine
Tactics, the red reprisals, claimed by no one’s bagman,

No one’s hard hate, spleens ripened only to secrete joy,
The remnant of skirmishes,  flatten every area
Anew, beyond recognition in wild blood’s feast of love!