Democracy

Braeburn Heart Eat Fruit Red Yellow Apple

Love sponsors little deeds,
Of which a kiss stands right on top,

That emotional feel of succulence,
That like a thornless cactus

Makes you warm and wet at the same time.
And we learn that a kiss stands her ground,

Making inroads on a flesh
That can dance in the name of lust,

When you’re too drunk to understand
That all lips that come your way,

Don’t necessarily carry a license to la la land.
Still we make kisses while the distance is nigh

As we become landing strips
And launching pads, cheering on a democracy

Where all that you do in the name of love,
Makes little curios that stand out,

Making you fall to your most primal self
While making a banquet of your savagery

The truth is, what more can you ask for from democracy
Than love marking her territory

On your mistress’s’ lips.

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Austen Country

Pride and Prejudice

The sexual revolution, like a juggernaut,
Moves on, with no hope what so ever
Of stopping it or slowing it down.
So I step up, to sell marriage,
A haven, sacrament and institution,
And a sweet home to many.

When I say that I’m a non-conformist
I mean to say that I change in retrograde
In the complete opposite direction of change,
Everyone else embraces – the anterograde kind.
I look out of my two window panes,
I see the fall of Victorian dresses billow
Bigger than dinosaur bellies and gentlemen
Lift their hats every time a woman
Passes by. I see a little pact between man and woman, that is,
Undergoing both devolution and irrelevancy,
Like the corset, or courtesy,
Stubbornly resisting the inevitable,
Almost like the stones of Stonehenge,
Her timelessness endowing man,
With an offering of legitimacy,
Of an otherwise commonplace ritual
Of bed hopping.

And by design, falling in love,
Is simply developing staying power
To the custom of mounting beds,
When man develops that recurring feeling
– Sometimes a sheer constant – that the freedom
To walk away, is only negligible,
To the compulsive need to stay,
And occupy a room, both,
On the inside and out.

And in Austen country, there are
Those who cheer on this haven. The “Liz”s
And “Darcy”s, who have become sheer
Misnomers in modernity. Being a romantic,
Is far from policing your bodies,
Or being sentinels on guard posts.
It is the sheer pleasure in knowing the unknown
Is as mythical as the dream prophesizes.
How beautiful to have another
At the caressing distance of a breath,
Gold orbiting like rings of Saturn,
In that near-perfect moment,
Butterflies start to settle on your skin,
While beneath, a tsunami wave is breaking loose,
About to engulf all in her corridor.
And all you can do is to resist, the resistance,
Just wanting to be washed away
As far as you can. How endearing,
Not knowing, what you’re feeling.
And still letting that feeling control you,
Till you exclaim; as your resistance,
Finally breaks,

And now, you are no longer a Jane Austen novel.
Just a page of Mills and Boon

Life As We Know It

Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes
Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes

The lone dog outside our house
Sleeps oblivious to cars driving by

And a street lamp, like a tungsten moon,
Glows from her vantage point

While pedestrians walk by, not knowing
What is happening in our home,

While my wife and me, seated on a 8 by 7 feet bed,
Await, oblivious to passers-by, a lone dog,

And to a streak of energy that is building up
Inside us, that pledges to make the benign, malignant.

And unlike dogs, we don’t sniff each others bottoms,
We make a pact with our goldfish lips,

A pact that tells “you are invited” to a flesh,
To a tradition of the marriage bed

That can only make funny noises,
And still calls it, a musical score.

Father and Son

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Jesus had a crown of thorns,
And he was still God’s son,
Played out by God’s own plan.

I ponder, why is the bible filled
With stories of fathers betraying sons
Like Abraham almost did.

And that bond, between father and son
Is the one that keeps the name going forward
And preserves the heir in one.

I look at Jesus and Isaac,
And I look at my father, still giving
Me gas money, and I can’t help but wonder

How precious the bond between
Father and son is. One day I will stand
On his grave, with no words to pacify

My grieving heart, thankful
That he wasn’t like God or Abraham.
My father could only do one thing wrong;

He protected me from this world,
When he should have let me go,
To the waiting claws of tigers.

So that I too could earn my stripes.

Learning To Fly

love 8

There is no greater joy
Than that moment, a fledgling bird’s feet
Become adrift of the ground.
And learning not to feel anything
On your feet, is when, you
Find your wingspan and slowly,
You gather wingspeed,
And together, you become,
A specimen of ornithology with a keel,
Learning that the azure sky,
Has endless possibilities,
Just like when you are an offering
Of flesh, reaching out to another body,
To become entwined as a pathology,
Of time bridging to timeless,
When your body and hers,
Are persuasive anatomies
Loaning each other,
To spark something electric,
That has both a plug point
And a switch.

Virginity

woman 5

Stringed like a puppet,
We dance to the tune of our ancestors,
In an education that is passed on
From one generation to another.
We learn that crossing our legs
And wearing a chastity belt is a trademark
Of a woman, who believes in love,
To the extent of keeping her hull ready
To be broken by first water.
And that strain, which deprives, and yet
Sustains, lurking under lips,
Inside buxom breasts, or even between
Hip bones, is beautified, by the notion
That there is someone out there,
In this boundless wilderness,
Searching for you, your heart and then your flesh,
To become instruments of music,
Jukeboxes, gramophones, even CD players
Transcending altitudes imposed by octaves.
And when patience overrides lust
There is a beautiful unopened bud,
Which, only when spoken in nuptials, affirmed by gold,
And shared in consummation,
Opens her world, petal by petal, to be a selfless offering,
To the most selfish thing about man;
His singular need to culminate,
In corporeal democracy.

Freedom

Love 7

To every sanction or outright embargo
There is a counter-movement.
No one walks on the streets on curfew days
Yet teenagers still play cricket, down empty alleyways.
Embargos too, make life austere,
Except for contraband that is sneaked through mules
To a place, only the smugglers know.
And sanctions, just like the disciplinary orders,
Given by parents, never stop the girls
From holding the apples out
For the quarterback or the power forward
To pick, after a game.

Freedom is, more often than not,
A weapon for the rule-breaking hero,
Who has a larger than life existence,
Seemingly becoming on the bathroom mirror,
A somebody, that dethrones his childhood,
To grow up, to learn that out of all things,
Love entertains, flying becomes
Your summer, gifted with the heroic song,
Of thrust and triumph.