The layers experience A sensual feel of potions : The Tongue savouring the Laces of cream on my Man’s lips - A word is brewed along With every kiss exchanged, Poured in a thread to String endearments of love, Each of it drowns me Deeper into him, Into the realms of my poetries, As one is added to the pile, As the night ends.
The guards relish bribery, One slip of cash slid past their doors, And the Sword is mine - A farmer slaughtered, A noblemen robbed, A peasant drawn and quartered - Innocence mocked and burnt As it fuels my heart to spill chaos, With every act, a word is brewed, And culminate the poetry By the last bribe, To the rape the Queen, The King’s love, Under the cruelty Of the night.
As the December hits, I put on my scarf, Laced with ivory and maroon lines - Loneliness creeping in, Snowing on the windowpane As I sit by it, A Candle aiding light To make its way in the darkness, With every drop of wax That melts, a word is brewed, I shiver, smile and then sleep, As the last drop of wax Hits the cold floor And another poetry is completed, Under the touch of winter.
A poetess knows her Way out, always -
When she brandishes Her tools, Words bow to her, Disciplined, And tailor themselves Into a beautiful poem.
Which ones Are more merciless : The nights and the Showers when I bleed, Reeking of restlessness, Or the whole Other bunch Of them That sprays the Reek of the former, Remorselessly in my blanket? - How many soldiers Can I defeat all alone? - The thoughts rape Me during the nights, And I don’t take Showers anymore, Standing by the edge, Grabbing everything I can, not to fall.
A man knows How to prick his Lady’s temper - In the places which Are her domain - One question With a tone of urgency : “The tea is not Ready yet?” And he’ll watch Her proceed in The most predicted manner, As he gets the tea And the pleasure All on his tongue In the next two minutes - I see her everyday And feel a twitch In my throat - But in the corner, I do gulp down A few doses of pleasure From his vial, too - I’m an element External to their bubble, Perhaps a kin, the salt, the glass or her bra - It makes me question Everyday about the back door Attached to the kitchen And why she moves Towards it every day But never flees? - I gulp another dose Of pleasure every time She decides to stay.
Behind the drapes, You tap your finger on the window, The glass breaks : Tiny shreds of obscene appetites, An impulse twines around Your intestine akin a thirsty creeper Just as the night bends on the Carnival of Famine - You elect the severity of the doses To who you want to leave Hungry, hungrier and the hungriest, Barren, naked on the concrete, It is in your bosom that holds The remedy, the Philtre - The trance locks your lovers In a cabin that burns, screams and shrieks Of utter and absolute hunger, Meanwhile, The bait is left on a run on the cold street, Forbidden, bruised and breathless, The veil smirk on your lips as you behold it Calls for the rains to paint it red, Death odoured the air as you plunge The dagger into the chest, The clouds roar in accents of Red - You lay bare your bosom to Consume the reverence, the power, And brim it with the Philtre And throw the vials of the same to The lovers’ cursing bellies, The meanest left the hungriest, As you throw the last vial into the cabin And walk away towards the throne.
What burns away the fire? It isn’t your tongue, always, Who you claim guilty of dousing it off - There are windows left unclosed On a stormy night, And fans spinning without a switch To turn it off, And flags flapping; hoisted in flower pots Put everywhere in the room, Where did you dump the flowers away? Are you intending to conserve water? - There are bells inside your head That ring and beckon the flowers With the sweetest of the psalms, Why do you still venerate the flags, then? - It is their sons and daughters, Drawing the water you Conserved and splashing it on each other, It is their wives Who hanged their pictures on the switch board, It is their tongues, Who relish the taste of the wind at midnights - It is the wind and not your tongue That burns away the fire - And you still open doors to them ; Why? Perhaps you’ve a roof to protect, As the wind will blow you away Once you decide to leave the house, As you look outside your window everyday, You behold severed tongues and nothing else - And you slumber off by the pane Leaving the window unclosed.
I fell off the bed Right when the dawn Hits the sky, All the while, All through the night Sleeping peacefully On pillows That complain less, and embrace more - The gun runs out of Bullets just when it has The King to left to liquidate All the while, All through the infiltration Holing hearts of soldiers in vengeance, A Kingdom That chained your queen And killed your father - The red dress doesn’t fit You just by a few inches, The weighing scale mars your mood When your lover scraps Off the red fabric and whispers to you, “Skin suits you the best” And you realise, That you didn’t hit the floor But fell in his hands at dawn, That your queen had already poisoned the King, That skin suits you the best, That something better awaits for you, And that he loves you the most.
Will you bother to care For the game - In which You chase Your lover Till she is being caught - To control The fate of you And your lover, To exist within It and let it Never end, Having her In front of your Eyes, forever Smiling, breathing ; Or just catch Hold of her, In your arms, On your lips And die along With the game, forever?
A man Is pleased By the adorations Tied on poems By the mirror Every single morning Under the Sun of blushes -
The shadow Sleeping behind him Tries to lift Itself to look In the mirror, Incessantly struggles And fails, Embedded under The man’s name And brick -
It did succeed To look into the mirror One night When he was asleep, Yearning for poems And tongues to Recite hymns Of praise, But under the skies Of Dark The Moon Slipping under The mountains With the Sun to make love And in the morning He is up again To brim with blushes - How can one at all Blame the mirror In this Sea of Biasness?
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".
I drive in circles, and wait for a spectacle, or a girl in corset to come around and catch my attention; then, I drive in circles around her, until she's annoyed, just enough to call the police, but, she doesn't — instead, she opens the co-driver door and sits shotgun to me; that's just how it goes, driving in circles, circling death like vultures, for a prey, that's just how it goes, she was annoyed and, now she's in my bed, wrapped in mystery, in these sheets like nothing ever happened.
my mother, she worries about me, she loves me more than dad does, because, she calls me five times a day and, my dad — he always calls me to wish me, two or three days before, my birthday. despite their differences, my mother and my father, they both pray for me; but, I don't, my eyelids are barely ever closed to pray for them, and, if I had it in me, I would probably pray for myself, for newer girls to keep the monster in me, accompanied, for a car with better mileage, for a gun that doesn't jam when the thieves break-in for my life.
and lately, these words have been coming effortlessly to me; nobody could tell why. my mother texts me everyday at four in the morning, to check if her wasted son is still alive, and, I text her back almost instantly — now, she's relieved that she wouldn't come back to find her son lifeless, headless, and, with a missing spine inside a wrecked car; she worries about me to her death, unlike the girls, laying beside me every dawn, worried about their wealth; although, the only thing that I look forward to, is putting it inside raw, these girls are never worried about their sexual health.