Poems for a Queer Soul
It feels delightful to steal some bits from my new found office life and scrounge my little diary for poetryyy:) and yes! apologies for being so inconsistent with blog entries. I guess, i just have to deal with the fact that i can only post stuff on blogs when I honestly feel a need for it and most importantly, when there is INTERNET around me with a proper speed and not a slow mooing machine (like mine:(
I thought I would put some poetry here this time.
One of them is new, one of them is old, all of them are full of me. And a certain you. And that panting, breathless word.
So here are two, three hands of that desperate word. Let me hear you scream too. Its very easy.
GETTING TO SILENCE
Run your fingers to the only place they are destined to speak at……
(Mildly perfumed nipples.)
You only talk there, curl on the legs and make me whorl like a tweaked lily..
Take another gentle nip, splashing salted dew
And I do the job of being silent
(For a change).
THE ONE AND OTHER
When two people can sit jarringly silent in one room
And One, fiddles with the thought of storming out and Other, packs up a smile of a disdainful content.
One, picks up a queasy vomit of logic. And taste its horror. The Other, shits more and throws it like a little girl with her first game of ball. Throws with utter delight. Like a real man.
One, plays hard to mask all the terror. One, is perfect at pretense and One, glorifies this tacit nudity in the mirror every day. One has to understand the Other. But
The Other, walks out of the room leaving no scope for debates. Takes away the logic and the loathing. All acts that could connect this seamlessly vast ocean of relations.
One, continues to sit in the room with lips pursed and a generous consumption of cigarettes and a heart that plops out on the plate and scatters like a mutilated bloody lump. A delicacy One eats. A truth One lives.
And nothing will change it in the years to come. Maybe if only, One becomes the Other.
Or the Other finally finds the One.
A BETTER WORLD
Innocence of children should not be taken for granted nor should promises made by men.
Both can grow up to be vengeful bastards with gangrenous spite
That cannot fill up a room. Fingers, etched to purple ass holes.
Ensue punches, “our logic”, “truth is what you see hard” and other such smoldering infections. I wish their words could be turned into silicon, at least we could get use them to stuff. We will need a different nation for such creatures. Some distant piece of land.
Some might call it The Manland.
I say its Men’s toilet or better
ONE NIGHT STAND
Your chest was made of marijuana- sugar. Like tinkling little balls of flavor.
And it fell on me like a warm blanket with two marble nipples. One throbbing heartbeat and an oaring hand that swept across streets. Through all the muck. To just reach me.
You told me, you were not like other men and you will not hurt me. Because you came equipped with Vaseline and sturdy fingers. Raunchy boiled tongue, reeking of nicotine and a temporary love, I am very fond of when you slip yourself between and forget where you are. Your eyes closed. And an open mouth. Like Krishna did when Yashoda asked him…
And he showed the entire world swirling in his mouth.
But you craned your mouth down to pick up globules of sweat and trailing it around my waist. Dropped more Vaseline and a dizzying thrust.
That spirals up to pain and then eyes, (a tear) and
Hands, lifelessly haunting the creases of your shirt.