I find myself in that dark abyss Cruel, malefic, and conscious I know not what I'm writing The purpose or the reason There's no escape route visible Clamouring for breath Screams muffled into whimpers My head hurts— A lot Oh it hurts, it hurts, it hurts I haven't seen love If it's meant to be seen I haven't felt love If it's meant to be felt I haven't tasted love If it's meant to be tasted What is love? I heard, the first glimpse into this rare jewel Is given by the primary caregivers I know not who they are Are they those two bodies— The ones screaming behind the screen The air heavy with a charge That doesn't feel positive Is this love? Then I have ample I see them while I play with Jojo and Mojo It's always those dramatic flailing of arms The crude expressions- theatrical They call me expressive Probably got it from my mother They call my articulation grave Probably got it from my father They see me debating on stage Say I have it in me- a gif...
Cruel are those golden shards that cut through my curtains
Opens an wound all too new, breaking a slumber all too a lure-
It pierces my eyes and invades the gore corners of my abode.
What does it witness, I wonder?
The chipped embroidery my enamel carved, perhaps
The ensemble of thoughts I decorate in my cubic nook-
I gaze at the ones stacked in front, an armour to the gruesome,
The trecherous intrepid memories dancing in a pagan trance,
Invoking the amphibian cherub.
Or perhaps the russet mural on concrete, a modern art-
Maybe the entangled sheets Erebus and I made love
Our carnal hunger overrode, tearing out our juglars and gut,
Consumating Chaos- an apt betrothal.
Mercy it is he's spondylitic, ignorant of the cold side of bed,
Dyslexic or perhaps unschooled. The Nyxian celeste
much wiser in the regard, a witness to the incongruity,
Deciphered the phoneme- a blood curling voiceless velar fricative.
I am a grapher, a photographer sometimes, a cartographer
renowned. His golden fingers tracing the dents
The plains, the hills and the rivulets;
The amber eyes none the wiser, with gentle wrinkles,
and soft dints, dimples we call- all so gay in disposition.
His borrower of strength, with craters like bullet wounds,
Like knives stealing much of meat, the rest left unstitched,
But more like a cosmic nuclear, with a vaccum to transpire the truth.
Yet she somehow glows and becomes my chaperone,
And a village of tiny torch bearers surround her,
Upon my rendezvous with my lover dearest, the concrete confines,
My nails dug into its flesh, elicit moans- screeches and screams.
The cloud oft blanket the city lights, their jealous eyes-
Do we not enjoy the gruesome?
A sadistic and barbaric ritual I perform, eyes upturned,
Lips that lisp, hands cuffed with hair long and open like a Maenad,
Feet wayward, tapping and running but never too far it travels.
In the morn when he comes, promises optimistic,
The toad takes respite in the goo and muck I paint with,
Some back in the shelf seducing the petri dish, the ashes concocted
With saline and sanguine essence- mortar for my house
That cracked when a loud guttural bellowing emanated.
He, thank the heathens, never casts his imperious gaze up,
A descendant from the Heavens, too proud to behold the ceiling,
Left oblivious to the play of Shibari, beginning at my nape
The cotton snare curling its fingers around my neck; suspended,
Kissing away the modesty that I've borne too long,
Only to be hindered by a knock- the pungence of dillema,
Sister to Hope, permeates
My warm suitor awaits, an infidel affection. But none dare object
When Life impregnates you in lustful intercourse!
Come then, ye Golden shards, pierce my breast and kiss my woes away.
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