In a book with little illustrations
And text, lies what takes place
On thrones and slums,
On rickshaws and cabins inside Jet airways,
Where little geometries
Are arranged, inversed, slanted
To make chemistries titillate.
And this book holds the corporeal truths
Few speak in sheer honesty
Or do in shameless subordination,
When in those close encounters
Anatomies and misanatomies are bashfully contravened
To make bare necessities
A bonanza of skill and articulation.
And all it takes is a small book
To make a man the god of little things;
Of all the naughty little acts in 64 positions
That we ignore in shame and yet
We bounce off anatomies, like questions being posed
By extensions of our bodies.
Pages that miseducate the sane
To make folly, with all the little
Places that are reachable by anatomical devices,
And of all the desires that the body conceals,
Only barefaced is worthy,
To be recorded long into memory,
When you became less than yourself
And still that little creature
Inside of you, embraces the savageness
Of all the unholy truths
Scripted inside your own
Body of secrets.