Short Questions and Neruda’s Tongue

Lady in Red

Do you know that instant noodles only
Takes 3 minutes to cook inside the microwave oven?
And a quickie 5 minutes inside
A mucosal pocket?
And do you know it takes
One second for love to bloom at first sight?
Do you know a match stick
Can only last 10 seconds the most?
Do you know the wrong word
In a moment can destroy a lifetime of right words?
Do you know childbirth
Can take only a few hours of labor pains?
Do you know that pop corn
Takes 5 minutes to fizz?
Do you know that it took god 7 days
To make this universe?
Do you know there are so many rapid moments
We cannot control – like panic, anxiety and fear?
Do you know that there a blue pill
For the rapid man and a Prozac for the blue man?
And do you know it takes
One moment to make the blue lad bluer?
To wash away his sandcastles.
Do you know that everything is short,
Except when a man’s tongue becomes swollen and blue
Tasting a beautiful clitoria flower
When he sees the ocean come tumbling towards
Him, in slow rhythmic waves,
And all he can do is to throw
His tongue out, like a blown-up lifejacket.

Coriolis Effect

whirlpool 2

They say that the rotation of a turquoise planet
Makes wispy movements on ponds
On bathroom bowls, forces tornados
And relays cyclones and other ballets of nature

And we too know, how we make
Rotation part of our daily anatomies.
How we rotate the stem of a ripe mango
To pluck it, how we plunge a corkscrew
To open a vintage wine, or how Shane Warne
Spins the leg break to bamboozle batsmen.

And still we are slaves of spins
Of how a little magnetism around a radius
Makes us fall in love. And yet we are consumed
By another’s orbitals – where are we now?,
Where to next?, is she procrastinating?, will we work
In the long run?, is she a hurricane and a banshee in bed?
Oh God, is she wife-material?.

We pirouette to another’s orbitals.
What keeps us hostage, the gyres that stream us
The vortices that baffle us, the vertigos that giddy us
The whirlpools that sink us. All stemming from one creature’s
Orbitals of the heart and mind.

Yet we have our own helices that define us.
The DNA of a man that can see past the doubt
To make it work. How we can resonate
Are spins, like figure skaters do, or how your hands
Master the pottery wheel, knowing deep
Down that what matters is not the orbitals
But the ground states.

And we are grounded to those baffling genes.
What makes me a romantic and her a realist.
And when we meet in the middle
We know that there’s another planet
That we need to inhabit. Like Mars and Venus
Need earth for a rendez-vous.

We are imperfect humans. Perfect freaks
Who overthink everything we do. When love is
Just about finding a common torque, to spin.
And making love is absenting your spins; becoming nonsensical,
Folly dancing all over, while trade winds blow.

As you become one singularity, one flesh,
At the equator.

Creatures of the Dark

Sea Breaching Ocean Humpback Whale Mammal Animal

There is beauty in light, like in the luciferin
Hidden on the ventral side
Of winged beetles; creatures we call fireflies,
And they turn luminous green
Underneath their abdomen
Emanating chemi-luminescence.
And these flying lanterns,
– Soft-bodied creatures flying with their elytra -,
Make children run on the trimmed lawn
And the inner child climb out
Of able-bodied cocoons.

There is still beauty
In darkness, when two people sleep
To each other’s lullaby, nocturnal creatures
That smolder like twigs in winter.
Pitch black is when you become only as lucid
As the clarity of her body on yours,
Drowning you in a landslide.
When you let the invisible hand
Guide you to the heart of the tempest;
Huracan raging in wind, fire and storm
Ravaging the ravenous.

And you feel all sorts of creatures in the dark
Sharks inside your lips pillaging hers
Little dinoflagellates inside margins of your irises
Whales waiting to burst out through a sweet spot
And the ocean flowing from inside to out
Through every pore in your skin.

Marriage is Sexy

Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

Do you know that marriage is darn sexy.

Have you seen your wife’s buttocks
Grow bigger by the year, like brown gunny sacs
Filled to the brim with husked grains.
The breasts are still sprightly perky like
They could hang an old pair of tea cups
Her hips spread out like Siberia
And the g-string she still wears
Grows on you, just like the vast unmapped areas
That have no chance of being covered.

She will let you spank her
Until the moon becomes two blood oranges
She will fall to your lap, dancing like a sultry tornado
And she will make her lips do wonders
She will pop the wine bottle
And pour the lemonade

And still what is most sexy about her
Is, she will now be bloated around the edges
Age creasing her skin, rocking her muffin top
Loosening her chin and still
She will leave you simply speechless,
How she keeps her secrets and pours them out
All at once. Like when she will buy
A baby doll or a corset on your birthday
Or suddenly drop her garments and go skinny dipping
Or wear a mini skirt with no panties on
Or flaunt her G-string above her hipsters
Like a 20 something.

And there are no inventories to marriage
That’s the best part about it.
Its how you push the boundaries
Waking up to new traditions while keeping
The old ones and still remembering to climb
On each others bodies as often as possible.
Some monkeying around never really hurt anybody.

And my wife will always be my first and only love.
And I look forward to growing old with her
Knowing we will reinvent life at every milestone
Living larger than society dictates.
And life is about reinvention. Of how two people
That know everything about each other,
Invent newer arrangements to let
Newer feelings prosper. The G-string will never
Grow old on my wife and nor will I.
And that thought by itself, is simply beautiful,
Knowing that fat man will never be a pod of vanilla
Nor will missionary sex be.

And in love isn’t it all about the little things.

The apron, the baby doll,
The leopard skin g-string, the glowing condom,
The happy tears, the gait, the skip of a heartbeat
The scrappy notes and post-it notes
The blue pill on my tongue and the clit that becomes my tongue
The little rooms we dust out on Sunday mornings.

And the little words we commit and omit
In pledge and in silence

In love and in love.

Marine Theology

Annunciation

They say marine creatures, like mollusks
Write their own scripts with ink, venom and milk.

Biological concoctions of peptides and indigo dyes.
And here life is all about the beautiful prey and her capture.

And we humans call the prey, a mystical gender,
A euphemism, “woman”, radiant and strongly nuclear

We make another euphemism “love” on tender surfaces.
Seeping heart-fluids through a funneling harpoon

A woman can be a tunicate on a rock, flowing and ebbing,
Her body beautifully sessile; the siphon, a little opening,

Taking the feed in. Love was spooned like an ounce of sugar
To a little shrine. The offering of a holy pilgrim.

Like an anchor melting inside of her, cast iron
Oozing out milky nickel, pristine and full of life

Love was an adoration to what was shrouded by a loin cloth.
Milking a little life was the almighty truth.

And now they will wait, for annunciation.

God

donald trump

Only god gets to say
Looking in the eye with a little arrogance,
“you’re fired”, while flipping his quarter pounder hair
Like a Big Mac, striking fear through every muscle
On the chin and cheek.

And still there’s something about God
That you just cannot ignore.
Like the mogul heart and boyish twitter account,
A virile potency that shames most men his age,.
The flaming beauty sharing his bed,
An eastern-European accent that makes among
Other things, empires rise and conquer,
And a babyish chubbiness that makes
Plus-size, a little extra chin and muffin top,
And still, an endearment.

And he will always be the great white hope
Of a land that has seen decibels of brays and trumpets
Dividing a patchwork land
Both crying freedom and foul. While the seed
Of Kunta Kinte rises like the tide of the river Gambia
Demanding equality – Martin’s dream
That echoes at best, like the lonely dribble of a basketball
At the hands of a young black man
In a Washington DC court.

And God-haters will line up in the streets
In the name of science and arts
Or for the 14 year old felled by the albino trigger.
They will sing, dance, write and explore
How to make America a bunch of God hating atheists.
Forgetting for a moment that landslides
Of the heart and ballot, were once a story
In the American heartland.

And God will promise little things
How to balance opinions and cheque-books
While the polls see-saw. Storming on
Like a Walmart cart on a Friday night
Opening up like a packet of Lays chips
And watering the flower bed of the American economy
Long before taking time to smell the blooms.

And God is everywhere.
He is on CNN and Fox, on the church nave,
On twitter, in every sensitive issue
That needs some political incorrectness,
– Some long-needed honesty –
On the lips of every refugee and drug mule
And on the long road to recovery
Of mistakes made long ago.

And they say Moby dick was a fat white whale.
So is God. Pequods will rush, Ahabs will roam
And still there’s an ocean that needs
A larger than life. One day they will say
God went through this dust bowl
And made it into a promise land.
And protecting the ten commandments
Of the great American constitution
Will be his greatest redemption.

And there’s something sharp about a God
Who drives the message in like a golf cart.
And knows when to play the trump card.
And heaven is just a little oval office
And command central, from where
He will send angels and thunderbolts
To the great turquoise playing field.
And do wonders with the hearts
That need moving.

And bridge he will, everything symbolic
About America, The tint and the shade
The ghettos and the mansions
The sleeping and the sleepless
While stalemates slowly turn to landslides.

And there’s nothing ironic about
That beautiful autumn day in November
When fate wished America

“Godspeed”.

Mini Skirt

Mini skirt

The hem line
That makes boys become thieves
Of glances and perverts, of their
Own curiosity. What stands miniature
In stature and is pulled down
With great difficulty
And yet sways in the gentlest mistral.
The short and the shortie
That makes Danny De Vito look tall
And a little underwear a peekaboo.

And this item of clothing
Is what makes girls grow up
To the angst of their dads
And yet makes moms reflect on their heyday
When they too were 70s chicks
Darting around in bare minimum.
This item will always be
At the center of wardrobe malfunctions
Or perhaps scandalous affairs
And will make the boyish heart giddy up
Like a mustang in the wild.

And yet, there are no constitutions
To a scanty piece of clothing
Just the perfect sovereignty
Of comfort and the reason, legends
Like Sharon Stone, are made on screen.
And she will only ask for respect
From the uninvited and scandal from the invited
To make her come off in loon.
When the strangest epiphany falls
– That a naked woman pales
To a glimpse of her hemline.

Disclosure was always an anti-climax.
It takes away the mystery
Out of the plot. The suspense
Out of the riddle.

Perfection out of imperfection.