I mustn’t think of you, the ripples of love over moist skins,
the stinging world of magic, soul-sex, your hair tinctured
with gold, of the times when you meant what you said.
I must lay your thoughts aside, like the shrill buzz of cicadas,
cover your pale face out of sight, like cardinal motes of
daylight, which might diffuse one day in thick coral folds
to suffuse my glittering surface chequered with old frights.
I should simply doze on rickety chairs, delighting in far off
tenors of memory, bewailing the parting with spent dreams,
a wonderful craving in the gut, strident screeches of pigeons,
running taps, a game of truth and dare, credible lies. I’ll look
back with empty eyes, at the tiny month of ecstatic nights,
foolishly sweet, instant fires, hold my soul in flat palm, it’s
unhappy warmth clouding your splendour of silvery white.
I may be right I may be wrong, but I am out of way,
smoking lighted ends of cigarettes, stooping shy,
in the mounting sunrise your unbody merging with mine
my mouth on yours, just as I knew it would be one day ..
“To me you are but a distant unreality,
an unattainable river-boat sailing away
to horizon,” he says. With a few yearning strokes
she paints the air crimson and gold; a new conflict
pressing around his temples. She looks steadily beyond
dark curtains of his piercing eyes, her lilac gown
open in the front to a quilted knot. Six pulls
at the uncertain threads, and he could
strain extensive beats of a heady Arcadia
stretched out to meet dashes of turquoise blue.
He restrains a smile, lurking like an offender
behind dewy mouth, blowing fitful shreds of warm light,
traversing his rusted needs she writhes like a serpent
wrapped in twigs and thorns.
“The mishmash of a saint and a satyr,
I was always yours. Always yours to keep,”
his voice penetrates honey-slick archways,
fingers in hair tracing her name, the one he called
the most beautiful among women.
There’s softness of moonlight,
harshness of midnight, pleasures of wooing,
brutality of pinnacles, thrills of familiarity,
something and everything, shocks of delight.
Fragile and decrepit, squirting clamour and heat
she was lying in wait to come alive and be young again,
“Darling, I missed you,” she says. His voice
transforms into a fleshy mouth, his cruel teeth
engraving savage melodies on her rhythmic heart,
their supple earlobes curling like lotus-petals
in the wanton glow of approaching daylight.
Life hangs in air like a translucent weight
ponderous, dull brown, tepid air of spring
laments through ornamental landscapes,
clustering around my head, grunting oracles.
Lesions and liaisons, phoney fellowships;
no one traces the fading brightness on
rosy neck, slow decay of fostering heart.
Caught between the crumbling beams of
a majestic monument, I am the frail vine,
twisting and waving, swinging to be free;
my tattered body, too green to be wizened.
It is not oppressive; this loneliness,
I have an imaginary friend; a reflection
in streaming melancholy. I do not really
understand her, but I call her Madame;
wisps of smoke fly about her, hydrangea
blue, she has an inexplicable broken air of
an entombed muse, the sort poets seek
to lose and gain. She floats in dark azure,
dotting the thick veils of sunlight,
she slips, trips, tarries, parries,
accompanies me everywhere; both of us
meandering to nothing in a turbulent maze
like inevitable failures, when I look away
it seems she has sliced me open; misspent
life dying within. I get rid of her on a sun-baked
green-field, my fingers reeking of roses,
knees sore with chasing infatuation, twilight
carries me home in sooty arms, she waits for me
naked on bed, so cold looking, sin-stained,
vacant eyes; she cannot comfort me.
I am almost surprised she is still there;
Sorry, I could not
kiss you today
a heavenly smack,
A feeling of repose,
which passes you by
exhilaration of life
in fairy realm.
Why I didn’t, you say?
As I lay enmeshed in
relentless skirmish of
forever and now
the emptiness of moment
welled up my eyes.
Even perfect love
ebbs and flows
hour to hour;
is the most lonesome
that pitches the moon
freezes the sky.
For once my darling,
I’d struggle against
hide rainbow heart
conceal bruised lips.
Tomorrow we’ll overcome
turn fluid in
pure rapture of being
speak the language of
nightingales and ravens.
Could we ever make do with
anything less than excess?
When he is away everything’s just a sense of
wrong; indescribable, gritty, un-gettable, blue-grey.
Nothing at dawn seems right; sunset, moonrise,
it’s half past ten, night unfolding her black petals.
Gleaming fangs. She smacks the droplets of sweat
he’d left to bloom in darkness. With the tip of her
tongue she traces a crescent moon, molten ivory
spread in circles, steeped in his smell. Physical
stimulation pounding after her, choking, choking.
She waltzes like a hymn; unabashed. Open.
Her feet speeding through the lowering sky,
shuffling over his body’s firmament, falling,
falling like a shooting star; miserable, triumphant.
She shuts her eyes, desire flaming in ringlets.
He spreads his naked arms, disturbingly intimate,
hot illuminance reaching out from neck, spilling
across his cheeks. Sexy. Her love is an ebullition,
infectious, full-blown rose, prowling in an
erotic fantasy. Revengeful. She keeps him awake
for one thousand nights. He clasps her in moonlight,
mental osculations, sinful breaths. She is a volume
of music; a multihued blur, longing to be windswept.