Deeptesh Sen is currently pursuing his M.Phil. in English at Jadavpur University, Kolkata. His poetry has been published in The Statesman, Kolkata, the Journal of Poetry Society, India, the Stare’s Nest and the Crab Fat Literary Magazine. He blogs at .


Move across laughter
like false memory.
Travel across your dream,
with the failing corpse of memory.
Laughter descends
like a mad man’s perfume
across the floor of your memory.
You never spoke to the prophet
when they bombed your lover,
flâneur of memory.
Her hair was woven with sunshine,
you always buried her naked in your memory.
Doors open like in dreams,
her laughter always had a way of spreading
in your memory.
When you made love,
you thought she was endless,
her laughter still echoes in your memory.
Desire now becomes fear of mourning,
even her laughter was a trick
of your memory.
Her every movement was an absence,
her language was a death of memory.
Beneath the laughter,
the sliding is endless,
her forgetfulness casts a shadow across your memory.
Her laughter decides the quiet suicide of history,
the sacrifice is selfless in her memory.
Her laughter is like poison,
she knows she is god
playing dice with your memory.
Quietly, she toys with your conscience,
you are now a figment of her memory.


Vacant omnipotence
descends on you
like gravity,
through the rain-soaked sky
on a wet, October morning.
You turn off the radio,
trade your digital face for sunlight
and stare into the omniscience
with the quiet brevity of a wet spider.
Evening’s first impulses of beauty
consumes you
like the tedious dalliance of the ballerina
facing execution.
You collapse with violent indifference
into the tentacled breast of laughter.


She lowers her garment
with the practiced delicacy of indifference,
like the guarded intrusion of solitude at dawn.
Your movement is hesitant
as if you had staked your entire fortune
on the efficacy of the moment.
The room quietly explodes
into unbearable spasms of laughter.


The night is lonely without laughter,
the moment is empty without speech,
memory is unfinished without desire.
Laughter is the perversion
you choose to embrace
over the banality of love.


Beyond laughter,
there is always the conspiracy of desire.
Vacant indifference consumes you
with a forlorn radiance.
Memory descends like laughter
along the steep path of solitude.
Winter has the smell of dust and confession
from your lover’s attic,
long forgotten.
The night carries the taste of sweat
from unkempt city windows,
spilling with cold laughter.
You smother her unmooned body
with the lingering beauty of silence.

Her desire is a myth,
gently swaying
in the quiet shadow of laughter.
Lips burning,
with the politeness of death,
in floating asylums of speech.
Water burning
the door of moonfall,
and laughter.
You stare
at the strange geometry of laughter
with the rapture of failed restraint.
Laughter is the funeral of speech
beyond which
there is no dignity of horror.

Death of laughter

Laughter always has a slow, untamed death
along the quiet, unlit edges
of the crowded pavement and the wrinkled skin,
like the valiant ecstasy of intolerance
suspended in momentary indulgence,
slowly fluttering in guilty remembrance
until it quietly succumbs
like a satisfied, disgruntled child
to the last resilience of indifference.

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