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.

O is for Oleander

Oleander

I stroked her body, with satin finesse
Climbed in and out, with a resolute strain by me.
The rush of blood was purifying, the roar of the lungs
Was louder than a palpitating chamber,
The candle wax burnt through an hourglass,
Until there was no flame to extinguish.

And her body was like a yellow oleander plant
She bloomed on top of me, every root of her finding passages
Inside of me, suckling my brittle vitality,
Poisoning my flesh to an agonizing death
That defied everything I knew before.

It was so swift, I could feel an epiphany
Drifting out, like tentacles from my body.
The bones were so brittle that I felt
As light as a patch of slender Tundra mosses.
I had seen the sun climb out of her body
Blinding all my perceptiveness.

It was almost like a massive black hole
Had swallowed me, lock, stock and barrel

I had time traveled through an orgasm.

Maternal

0327

I look at my mother
Bringing in item after item to the dinner table.
A spread as rich as a King’s banquet.
And I look at each one of us
About to grab hold of a drumstick
Or a fried prawn.

And I wonder how she feels;
She gives and gives, when giving is fighting
On its toes embattled with extinction.
And giving when performed in the absence
Of ritual or rite, is where you find the sacrament
Of charity emboldened by motherhood.

I think of the maternal motif
That leaks out the charity syndrome
And all I can feel is my mandible
Growing a snout, and my legs converging together
As my body curves into the shape
Of a question mark. In my thoughts I’m turning to a seahorse.
Still, a seahorse only gestates and rarely
Rears the young.

And I realize I’m stuck in
My own purgatory of thought.
Tormented by my inability to feel
What my mother goes through day-in-day-out.
And I finally give in, knowing
I will only be a man who can carry
A troupe of tadpoles in two out-of-body sacs.

And I look at my mother
Knowing she is everything I’m not.
A giver like no other – From uterine blood
To milking breasts and now, a banquet
Of chicken and prawns.

And I’m that wretched life form
That only knows how to glutton out in sin
On my mother’s obese feasts.

April

Erabudu

The policeman’s arms stood in a frenzy
Like he was preparing for the Olympics
A strange scarecrow appearance was there
About him, when he finally idled
His arms. My wife and I, were sitting in the car
Looking on in the traffic. We knew
April in Sri Lanka is when all the shoppers
Come out of their hibernations
To be enticed by the “SALE” signs.

While on the Coral tree
– Erythrina variegata – buds can be seen
About to fully open in bloom, while the leaves
Fall in abscission, to leave a skeleton-like
Structure blossoming in scarlet.

And the stealthy Asian Koel
Plays a time tested April fool’s tradition
With the crow, planting her eggs
In the crow’s nest.

And in a daily newspaper you hear
Of the unfathomable – A politician
Has died from complications
Of being honest. And everyone knows
That it only takes a white lie to sell a prank.
They laugh and read on

And in the pavement you find
Red cloths flaming in color
Tempting the passer-by. A day of pranks
Ushering in a month of festivities
When color is draped across
Waistlines and goodies seem to appear
Oil-fried and ready for feasting.

And on the sliding pole, you see
Men in sarongs, climbing and falling
While the pillows pack a punch
And the blindfolded throw all they have
At an empty clay pot.

And the purse in the pocket slims down
While waistlines beef up
And man can be seen in his happiest,
Knowing for a week, he is among
Kith and kin, renewing mainstays of tradition.

You hear “koo koo” everywhere.
Nature’s way of saying everyone is a little barmy
At this time of the year. And through April fools
And a new moon, we celebrate our mortality,
Of how civilization looks to a changing landscape
To celebrate renewal.

When bloom becomes the only staple.

– How we open our hearts
To welcome spring…..

Elbow Street

Friendship 2

Two girls walking hand in hand
No pigtails here though, well past nubile age
They walk like they have no care in the world
And down elbow-street there are railings
And they hold on to them in clutch or clasp, at times hold
And elbow street hides the ulna and radius
Two slender bone formations that make holding, an art form
And walking while holding, a science

And elbow street is where hyphens form
Hyphenated in body and spirit
Tied by a common past and a particulate future
As if they know some man or animal
Will come between them and burrow though one person
And leave the other for the cold salty mists
Of a lonesome jetty

And elbow street ends in fingertips
And when palms clasp, there is no art or science there
It’s just human nature or habit
And those palms grip each other
As if friendship is a prayer and flow and ebb like play-swings
And, touch like a pidgin, renders heart-works simple
This singularity powers the heart engine
To make long-journeys in life-miles
While bartering small deeds and bigger words
When the exchange rate doesn’t matter
Nor inflation or austerity

And that interface on elbow street or palm end
Makes lips perfect strangers
And hearts, those vaults, placed inside breasts
To fill those economies of scale

Garden

tit

Flowers grow taller every day
Trees become greener
As the garden in the heart of spring looks
A spectrum of vibrant interwoven colors

I too grow like an inflorescence
My face becoming darker with an earthly outgrowth
As I become conscious of my own
Manliness on the bathroom mirror.

I shove my innocence and the residue of mango seed
Hopscotch out and caress the stubs on my mandible
And chin. I’m growing my own man-locks
And soon I will be my topiary master.

And the garden is where birds gather.
A fresh faced lad looks at himself
In the mirror and wonders, when will spring usher in wings
Of a cinnamon-breasted tit?

Poems at Ravens Perch

4 poems of mine appear in the literary journal Ravens Perch. I have opened a new link for the poems here.

https://meandererworld.wordpress.com/poems-at-ravens-perch/

 

Picture obtained from – http://www.theravensperch.com/

The-RavensPerch-for-Spreadshirt