Pleasure

how many lines intersect at this point called 'pleasure'?

But can pleasure be a point?

pleasure in a scatter diagram running a whole city.

or pleasure in a parallel line extending itself like railway tracks.

or pleasures such as 'you and me', which move in circles on a windmill.

or my pleasures with him, which dive and glide like projectiles.

Pleasure stored in a square box, the moving image.

Pleasure on the cover of Vogue.

Pleasure laid out on a smooth white plate full of cold salad.

Or pleasure written in texts and cds, and other round-the-clock stuff.

centers of pleasure, peripheries of pleasure.

graphic and non-graphic tales of pleasure.

ripples of pleasure on a canvas night.

Our pleasure(s)

their pleasure(s)

A class of pleasure.

The pleasure of a class.

Sepia

Sepia makes you look solemn,

like a flower with a dry mouth.

Sepia makes you a cradle that only windows know about.

When I'm looking at you in sepia,

the innocence burns me into pieces and shrouds.

A figure that doesn't fit into crowds.

Sepia and brown are not the same.

You were green on top of green when I last saw you.

In sepia, you are ancient history.

When the boats leave the ghats during dim, mellow afternoons,

your face ripples in sepia water.

Balm

Sometimes, when my shadow lights get trapped in a glass box,

or some other times, when I'm thinking about 'world hunger'

or other such things written on recycle bags and tee shirts,

I trace a crack in the pimple on my chin.

the tip of my nose feels cold when

my mirror tells me I'm no more than a pain on its surface.

So I go to the store and buy myself some new toys and blueberry muffins.

Markets keep the ghosts away, and the bubble wraps never complain.

down your throat

Flowered and scented, my grave-

Soak it in a butter lump inside your throat and be brave.

Talk random and loose to my bones-

They'll find your culprit and give him a run for his soul.

You think I think I'm smart-

Don't get me wrong, I've frequently overplayed my part.

Allow diffusion in the soup-

Be a fish in my dish, while our jingle plays in a loop.

Male Gaze

This bumpy road, almost like a country song.

But this was no trip to holiday.

This fest of carnivorous stonemen.

Each with his bow and arrow

Polishing his appetite.

When I read between the minds,

their walls are spontaneously greasy

With the grease sticking onto my plate.

They eyed me.

My cotton soaked itself as it spoke to my back.

Slender and obnoxiously sexy.

A tongue game of red leaves.

They eyed me, maybe they needed some spices.

Judicious until I'm fried, I moaned

a song of hot weather.

fingers on the doorknob

Our story isn’t dropping dead

It doesn’t miss my soul,

Hear me out until I save us

From falling through the hole.

A Monday evening soaked in silver,

A year or two in love,

Where promises and envies hit

On your and my behalf.

Its not my way of being with you, come and hold my hand

I’m stopping you I’m stopping me from slipping through the sand.

I’ll soothe your wounds, you wipe my scars.

As lovers we wouldn’t go that far-

We’d rather be a fantasy, which they don’t understand.

Where life has dropped its color tray,

Where two would make a crowd,

Where candid words would roughly bite

And Heartbeat loses sound.

That’s not where I take you to,

I haven’t lost control

We’re meant to be together,

And to let each other go.

Its not my way of being with you, come and hold my hand.

I’m stopping you I’m stopping me from slipping through the sand.

I’ll soothe your wounds, you wipe my scars,

As lovers we wouldn’t go that far-

We’d rather be a fantasy, which they don’t understand.

poppings!

'you'll sail through'- says a small thing with no eyes. have you ever felt this way? my mice always speak to me like that. they have no eyes when they pretend to be wise.

so much for tonight. listen to the radio when the mice are not around. when they are around, listen to them.

spasms

wait till it hits you
wait till it fades away..