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.

Hen House



My wife and her friends are about to throw
A hen’s party to the bridesmaid at our wedding.
When my wife will go to breadtalk
And buy some short-eats and finger food
For a night of frolic and merry-making.

And in Sri Lanka
There are no male strippers yet they still
Find ways to find petticoats or night shorts
With all the sex-positions printed on them.
When you get a glimpse of how the brain
Of a woman works. It seems
They love diversity. [Hold on; so do Men]

And in spite of all the racy talk
Getting gifts of baby dolls and lacy g-strings,
They will be celebrating the sisterhood, of the long heart miles
Journeyed, since a lower-grade class room
At a nun-run school. Karan
And Kaushie are battle-hardened hens
Who are raising little chickens.
And Jaime will soon be holding on to her man
On a lifted stage – the cynosure wife.

And perhaps there is something
About the sisterhood, we boys can learn from.
How an Absolut Vodka bottle
Or a Morgan’s spiced Rum, will never perhaps
Be equal to what they hold. We get drunk to a degree
When we cannot even feel the bond of shared histories.
And all the while the girls will joke
And banter, trade bedroom secrets
And make a little party
A celebration of the X chromosome.

And the last hen will go down the aisle
And a band of friends who are thick as thieves will now be
Only a Mrs, some man’s wife. And I will be
One of them – one man who looked
At a woman, only to see a keeper.
And Jaime will drift to her own destiny.
Imran’s wife. To love, cherish and be there
In sickness and in health.

And the hens will cluck away
Until their lungs are weary, telling stories
They once shared. Perhaps Shane, Sam, Imran and I
Were meant to be the anchors, the roosters, the other-halves.
And it seems the hens will always
Hold a little pact between egg-bearers.
Of how destiny is just a common road
Paved by a bond, that can never be broken
By time, space or fate.

Jaime will laugh away tomorrow
A hen’s cluck that will turn soon to a script of the heart.
Of love in the first degree. One man’s wife.
No longer a bridesmaid, an escort, the veil carrier.
The hen that outgrew the hen house.
To become a domesticated fowl
On the marriage bed.

Ring Finger

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

You find the ring finger
A little stockier, and impractical,
Nature’s unhelpful digit that makes
Locomotion a little half-hearted
Perhaps even outright lazy. And yet that
Idle stub that lazes to the busy-bodies
Surrounding her, is where
A centerpiece stands in all her glory.
A ring that falls two thirds of the way
And capsizes in her waist
Marking a milestone, when two
Natives of the land, partake a contract
To weatherproof emotions
With care and giving. A fat ugly stub
Of flesh, preserving a bond to eternity,
In embellished gold.

Canon in D Minor

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

When I listen
To Canon in D minor
I am transformed in history
To a woman who made me realize
That marriage, although not a mainstay
In 21st century society,
Will always be the canon
Of love. The wanderer’s flame
Searches for a thread to flare up
And to let a piece of music
Carry her down a nave and isle
So tenderly like Aladdin’s mat
Had transformed into a pair of heels.
And she was dazzling
And everything stood irrelevant
Except a little ring on a finger
And a vow for eternity
And Pachelbel carried her
Into my arm, and let her
Trespass on my lips. And now
She dances to my music
And I to hers, and this canon of ours
Solvates every God-given fabric
– Muscle, tendon and ligament –
Transcending melting points
Liquefying bliss.

To Wifi (From Husbanda)


I look at my wife
And she tells me my farts are smelly
And my tummy fat is too much
She tells me all the things wrong about me
Only to tell me what is right.

That I didn’t look back when I fell in love.
I jumped off the ledge as blind
As a bat and the echo location took
Me to where I was – a noisy place for the heart.
The echo making me jump
As soon as I see her.

Love is not a vestige here, nor primordial
It is new and forthcoming, and makes
Me value the little coupons she gives me.
The lip coupon, the snuggle pass
And the flesh ticket and what matters
Are the coupons I hold in my pocket
And transact when she is near.

And coupons are the strange accompaniments
That makes marriage, a give and take
A symbiosis of an elevated place
Where lips usher in body and flesh makes a little episode
Of soreness at all the right places
Simply abracadabra – sheer magic.



I stood at the alter
Seemingly the love-bug was ready
For flu season and you
The gal who stole my heart
Was about to steal something bigger

And we made something beautiful
When loin currents rippled with
Heart waves to sculpt a throng of memories
And I gazed at you and couldn’t help but wonder
How beautiful an eternity would be

And once you’re drugged on that fairytale
And the passages of yearning and the sore bits
Of your body, makes you immuned to ill-fate
When that marriage bubble
Seems like an adamantine fortress

And one day – hopefully far
When you’re marooned under a fluorescent lamp
In a well-lit hospital room – that’s when you realize
That love’s darkest hour
Is when your eyes are wide open
And hers are blacked out.

To Michelle


I watch you
Sometimes with a hawkish eye
At your gathering exercises
When the broom assembles together
The clutter by us, and all the time
I am the watcher – seemingly oblivious
As your grace becomes older
And that smooth surface grows lines
And dark patches encircle
As dark matter fills galactic spaces

And I still know that you
Will be my Charlie Chaplin and fart-patrol
My cuddle-me-bunny and my ghostbuster
Who vanquishes all my doubts and fears
As you lay your claim of my world
Fastening and unfastening lip-buttons
Pressing and releasing, holding me for a brief eternity
While you fluster something deep and meaningful

And you will always be
The vertigo that pirouettes me
The blindspot that perfects me
The amnesia that eludes me
And the mania that grapples me
And the addiction that endangers me
With a front-page obituary
Of death by a broken heart