I wink at the half-truths with the kohl liner,
breath lies through blushes and mascara
click on those heels when the roads act rough.
Ensemble an armory of every feminine bluff,
and then put on that red lipstick to laugh
at the follies of this little world.
Happy Women’s Day ❤️
I took sinful dips in vast seas of love embracing
you tightly, with a terror of drowning in the
deep waters of desires. Wines from your
lips did wonders, for I went and came back
from the hell fires, taking sinful dips
in the waters of love.
Shedding all vestiges of shame, clothed only
in translucent moon-light while holding
you tightly, trying to sooth the amber
of my flesh with your cigar breaths.
I performed holy ablutions to wash off any
lingering doubts of cravings, let raven
hair loose to sway in directions unknown,
only to clasp a caress in my nets in the
deepest pits of desires.
While softly twirling on the rubenesque flutes
of thirsts, closed my eyes and swam to the
farthest corners of desire to discover a
dated relic of yours resting in the
sea-beds of my whims.
Knowing that magical things might happen,
I allowed myself to completely penetrate
in the realms of darkest fantasies to,
accomplish once a flawless rapture of bodies.
While you played your wicked games
I let lose more shames just to capture a
whiff of your perfume, to break an ancient
spell of absence while taking sinful
dips in vast seas of love.
I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
As I stood on a tortured sea-shore
and cast my eye on the swollen waves
passionately kissing my naked feet
making love to me with a brutish force
taking me in its azure vinyl embrace
slowly grasping my flaming flesh with
a fiery I’ve never known before,
an uproar a stir in my fragile body
exhausted since centuries of decay
the foamy saline waters entering in me
through all nook and corners, fissures and holes
mixing in all the violent blues with the
crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million
serpents, wriggling gushing upwards
Oh! a sensation a loud roar within
a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation
an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!
My enslaved body in an act of consummation
so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered
at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird
caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the
far-east, I let it happen without any contest
Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose
the cinders of ancient fire burning in me
for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without
a single doubt or shame nor did I curse
the gods above, knowing that no desire is
mightier than the other, for yearnings
have the same frenzy everywhere.
But I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
Old Betty went to the bakery shop,
but pre-meditated plan was cut-short;
when upon discovery, the shop was closed.
The old Betty dignified, always composed
hatched a plan and ordered stuff online,
while gazing at the gems of river Rhine.
She has-time, yes she can still shine,
now that all her chores are online.
Ms. Matilda woke past the noon,
swooning to the Beethoven’s sad tune.
A mysterious ailment swipes,
over the modern women of her types.
These curious cases of daddys’ princesses,
of colossal estates and multiple mates.
Are inflicted with malady of swinging moods,
making them shudder at matchless boots.
Ms. Matilda sitting still in her bedclothes,
howled remembering how at,
the party last night, enemy women clapped
secretly when her golden heels zapped,
and as her crimson lipstick chapped;
she knew her teddy heart is in for a snap.
Tiny quiverings, cold
hands a realization
I ‘m not my best.
May be we don’t belong
here but there remains
a thin strand of humanity,
a hope small but a hope.
Trapped in a fluid body,
tentacles of burgundy garbed
thoughts oozing out like
myriad snake heads. Sniffing
somberly, the dark melancholia
pervasive in the air and then
crawling back, melting again
with the red hues.
I swayed and soared
in the clatter of pots
and pans, as the
sultry aromas of spices
aroused in me some
hidden desires.
Though I am the
cook and the Gardner,
such is my plight
that I am not offered
even a single bite.
Knowing there is no
respite, I scrapped the
waste morsels off
the site, you wished
a mild good night then
closed your eyes as
as I lay hungry on
your wild side with a
slight martyred pride.
If I’am you,
you are me
and that’s all
than
we are us.
Madame Neverhurry cousin
of Gustav Flaubert’s
Mrs Bovary,awoke at past 12
Suffering from a malady
Known as melancholy,
Casts her glance on the
Day’s chore, bored puts
The blinds back on, deciding
To have some high tea,
Summons, mischievous elves
On fire wings impatient
Yells “to get lost and bring
Forth aromatic mint tea with
Hazel nuts three or four”
On first command the elves
Disappeared, conjuring
A mysterious tea in glasses
Of crystal while the Madame
Put powders and billows,
adorning her buffet with
One Exquisite Ostrich feather
competing with the slopes
of Alps, all while thinking of
day’s chores and bitchy gossips
to be done which caviar to
be served with what exotic wine
at customary evening suppers
while discussing a mysterious
malady possessing modern ladies
known something as depression
so much work to do all
in a day, madam fainted
at 1 while still in satin beds
Personal elves hurried worried
Bellowing some wind trying
to revive with peacock
fans, “oh poor madam,
suffering pangs of
melancholy once again”
( Dedicated to all my beautiful women who loves to get up past noon)
