Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Lacuna (draft 1)
Do tell me if it's foolish
to look at your heaving chest
and imagine that your breath sustains a dream
of long walks on the beach
and cuddles in the bed
Who are you to torment me
by taking over my rationality in
the most unpredictable manner?
Maybe
you don't even know
just how every crease of the sheets
retains that little bit of you
and I envy it because
it carries you the way I can't possibly do
I reach a hand out from the
side of my bed to you
imagining that it touches yours
and I draw my devotion
in the air
hoping you would catch it
in your slumber
It is a long stare upwards at the ceiling
and the clock doesn't agree with time
You stir slightly and your eyes
rotate behind the closed lids
At one point
we will both awake and I'll finally realise
the territories of your heart
is like a boondock
that will not allow my affections to bear fruit
I will return to where it began
and retrace the path I took
before our footsteps overlapped
and went in completely different directions again
Maybe I can choose to retract my hand
and make my devotion dissipitate
I can fill this void with expensive things
and laugh about it with my words
but you will remain as a lacuna
in my past
sweet and unresolved, like a bitter aftertaste
and I will be that distant face
stowed away in a dusty corner
of your mind
even as I foolishly yearn to be the roof
the beam of support
for your dreams.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Bride
veil
lands at the hands
of the groom
whose feet,
raging with
indignation
demand that his pair of hands
cast
the veil like
an afterthought
to the back of his head
so that his lips
may spew venom
and his eyes
may cry deceit
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Dancing to forget

Passing around a dash
of defiance;
of quick decadence,
to the next pair of feet;
tapping,
twirling,
trampling on
some last minute
Sanities.
The floors light up,
cradling every
inch of movement
so the spectres don’t last.
They’re huddled together
like darkness
peeled open;
flaps of unknown
Skin,
soaked in willful
Thrill.
Call this sexy
or call this porn
but they’ll bring it all the
way around by calling it
A r t.
So they packaged it,
selling it to anyone
and everyone
who has forgotten
what it’s like
to
Forget.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Leaving the Rotund
The breasts,
they sag
from gravity,
slumped across
the pallid tundra,
comforting
the lone nevus.
They silently
protest
against the
foreign fingers
that could not feel
the grief
of the loose folds
of skin.
They are sad
Very sad -
even though their
dark heads are
bowed low
in humble glory,
basking in praises,
as they hover above
the strangers
they hadn’t met.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Why Sleuths are bored
shadows had been
unpolluted,
pristine specters,
until they crossed the sinister alleys
in a writer's mind,
burgeoning
with his own diabolical plot -
Of decrepit fingers reaching
out
to lone, unsuspecting ladies
who, just seconds ago,
felt their skins crawl, and their
spines tingle.
Of course, they showed no haste.
Calm and
Steady,
brushing the sensations aside as
silly little waves of
paranoia.
They'd soon find out,
(much to their chagrin)
that it was no wind chill,
as they're once again,
reduced to the lifeless
heap of mess
lying just inches away from the streetlight,
between pages 16 and 17.
Monday, June 11, 2007
For Another You (Final Version)
had been betrayed as
your eyes caught his wandering
arms around the other woman's
waist - the same arms
that would gently embrace
you while you slept.
The same eyes that once spoke truth
were now staring into someone else's.
True, there had been some warning signs
along the way.
He had casually let words
perform their daily executions.
But you thought (and hoped),
things would change for the better.
But now...
You felt the rage
slowly consuming you,
like the way a piece of paper
would dissipate when
held over flames.
You could almost feel
the contortions of your insides,
as though they're part of the
performance in a diabolical
version of cirque du soleil.
You hid yourself away for months
and prayed to emerge like a butterfly
from a cocoon.
But you never did.
On nights when it got unbearably cold
and lonely,
you'd take walks by the beach
and enjoy the sensation of the sands
between your toes,
and wondering how it would
feel like
to be smothered
by them.
The Walk (Final Version)
The faltering heartbeat
of two trespassers pierced
through the air
as they let their footsteps
fall gently on the ground.
It seemed surreal.
The vines had been awakened
by the intrusive rays,
permeating through the hollow crevices.
The path was illuminated,
not just by light. Every
ounce of minuscule crittery conversation
and every splash of a petal's brilliance
converged into a sight that
Eden would have been proud of.
“Such beauty.” they whispered, careful not to
let their voices corrupt
this tranquility.
Careful, always so
Careful.
They dug into their bags.
Cameras poised and ready to etch
the still on flimsy celluloid.
Clicks and flashes. Flashes and clicks.
Angles. Composition. Color.
They cocked their heads
and strained their arms
till the sky released its grief
in a torrent of fat droplets.
