![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/10\/6425cb88812ee25acdbcc49464b55517.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
My blood<\/strong><\/span> by Sutputra Radheye<\/em><\/p>\n poets are sleeping Their beds are warm like their flesh I despise the poetry of aesthetics I am a madman. My revolution is my word. My blood by Sutputra Radheye poets are sleepingwith flowers in gardens across brothelswhen the rest of the city-crumbles like pieces of breadfalling in the fire of communalism….<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":535,"featured_media":13103,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1660],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13105","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13105","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/535"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13105"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13105\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/13103"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13105"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13105"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13105"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
<\/em><\/p>\n
with flowers in gardens across brothels
when the rest of the city-
crumbles like pieces of bread
falling in the fire of communalism.<\/p>\n
as the scandalous lips wear their skin
dragging their words to the climax junction
of neon sigh-sparkling impotency.<\/p>\n
With collars of authority tied its neck.
I am free like the verses of Neruda
the words of Nabarun
the melody of Hemanga.
Execute my poetry. Read it not.
I penetrated the blood of my comrades
To conceive these poems.
Fire of the burning harvest flows in its cell.
Dynamite of the mines- its body.
Touch it, and your post-mortem report-
history will print to burn.<\/p>\n
With chalk in my hand
I will paint all streets in protest
For killing the crows.
The advertisements of ministry
Stitched on the torn backs of poor
I will tear as my hands were of Narsimha.<\/p>\n
Each student, each beating heart
Once taught to love will continue.
Kill me. I have a weak body.
With each drop of my falling blood
A new revolution will grow
In the urban concretes
And rural roads.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"