Friday, 27 February 2015

~ Entombed! ~

~ Entombed! ~

I have waited for you long enough,
To deserve you, at least this once …

Majestic steps creak under your feet,
Miming the yawning splits in their heart
No, no, these fissures can’t be healed or cured,
For all the time you have,
It will be spent leafing through them,
For the depth these ravines hold,
In their sore heart, and deep beyond,
Remains the mausoleum of the memories,
Those made once and again, alone …
The nobility of arched symmetrical domes,
Persian impressed motifs bejeweling,
The rich aesthetic tomb, narrow hungry gullies,
Vaulted channels, vine-like columns, secret they so hold,
You walked under them, amidst it, yesterday,
With your urbane shades on …
It wonder me no more, for why you didn’t see,
A skinny white palm, peeking from behind the door,
The jaded red door, with rusted dangling hinges,
The sight of which you drank the most …
Enshrined is the sky, its beloved sun,
In the far west dry arroyo of the same tomb,
Grave of the refurbished, varnished aplomb …
Famished are the fissures, dear, too much to control,
And with their ravenous skeletal arms,
They keep asking, for more, just a little more …

With time and spade in your hand, coming morrow,
Disinter me from my ornate tomb,
Not the way you so do intend,
But how I preciously want,

I have waited for you long enough,
To deserve you, at least this once …

Monday, 23 February 2015

~ They call Her … ~

~ They call Her … ~
Smiling feline,
Dangerous un-kohl-ed eyes,
Her ripened body ever-ready to be suckled on …
Arms inviting to play,
Later to gluttonize and slay
Embrace … drawing in and hushing for a while
Drugging, doping, those indecorous expressions,
Silent, arcane, honed over the years
Stealthily moving in the hustling throng
Snaking craftily through the sinuous alleyways …
Hidden from the masses,
Marijuana of the classes
She is the lady, my mistress,
The woman of the taste
Addicted to the compelling smell of manly sweat,
Over the posh abruptness of any suave heady scent
Silk of her splendid tinseled gown slithering,
Rousing the hard tan leather of hand-stitched shoes,
Carving the craved way,
To the blue gratification room …
Where she once was brought by the one,
She had demanded for love, so wrong,
Where fondled and nicked was her bosom,
Soul scratched till the bottom,
Nickel and dimed was her nubile body, so young
Where she became prey to the hunger of ever-hungry race
And she was left only unloved, bare, and eternally sore …
Would she still care what they name her now?
Stacking away the tattered tapestry,
Loaded with finery, and elegance her style,
She is plainly staging her payback role!

Sunday, 1 February 2015

~My last alive Opus! ~

Anne Vallayer-Coster, Attributes of Music, 1770.

~My last alive Opus! ~
I am a poet, as they say …
Plattering me one formidable silver lure,
But I wouldn’t give you out,
For the rarest of the choicest of words,
Because YOU—my muse—are too beautiful,
For them, to behold!
But someday I would implore you,
To get off the back of my thoughts,
For then I may tend,
To the things, muggy, monotonous and mundane,
Because YOU—my plunder—are too uncommon,
To be anything but my love, my soul!
Someday when I am lost, and thirsty,
And hungry for something prosaic and more,
And they give me a choice, to barter the ethereal you off,
Know even then, I would not lose you,
Choosing to rather die, keeping your elusive side alive …
Ergo love,
The sound of a hushed sign of our only vow,
Ricocheting against the closed barred window,
Kissing the domed multi-octave off-white ceiling,
And then into the faded walls, pumping the clear symphony,
To paint the doors, with concerto faith, ‘fine red and bright’,
Only to ask for one last least lyrical favor of you,
“Stay till the end of mine! Stay! You will, right?”
My last alive Opus that YOU are ……