Revolutions are nostalgic
like those early hours
when u smoke, 
fuck 
and smoke.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

You cross the river
and come to me
I shall show you how
the forest menstruates at midnight.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The images that come to you on a Sunday morning

Jesus, crucified
in an altar
facing the sea

Desires, Prayer beads
Rain down your skin
as you walk,
into the endless gaze
of a body sprouting blood

You turn away, from the wickfires, glorifying
a sacrifice, and face
the monsoon waves

Love, leaves the shore
again and again
Droplets from the altar
flow past your breath
filling the waters

The sea and the sky,
Pale blues, spilling over each other

You smile, as you notice, a million
crossing overs

wetness over the sandbanks
yellow lights over eyes, closed
sky over your purpose, and
My longings, over
your abundance
Read more

The Insult

Suddenly, one day
You become a weed
on a courtyard wall

The wild green
that nourishes
on the intrinsic bliss
of his domesticity.

Their murmurs of yesteryears
gather on your body,
hanging down
the dilapidated concrete,
and write
new epilogues
for a play, that ended
much before
the first Act

Your hapless nerves
become, the scorching summer
intruding, their frozen corridors.
The melancholy whore, You
spread like evening rays
over, the impending silence.

Your words
Your skies
Your cuddle
Your newfound womb,
shatter over
a forbidden land, mutilated.

The snake bite
on their moonlit nights, You
ooze out, from
a million pores.

Read more

Confession

I may not have done this
if you had, held me close
for a moment or so
before walking away into
the chores of indifference

Leaves holding on to the wind
before the fall.

The morning dew,
droplets of diamonds
On my face, pale white.

Read more