lust, when cajoled & converted,
from the thing it was, becomes
a lascivious ghost, whispering
into your cherry-blossom-ear.
how easy it can be
to drown
in each and every
syllable of that voice,
how difficult it can be
to come out
of a well, where you’ve
bled & emptied yourself.
.
© Anmol Arora
Day 27
(Inter)National Poetry Month
your hands caressing my throat
like it is your own,
gentle but rough,
little by little,
angling to my form and function,
fever-fervent and fastidious,
the calluses of your palm with a tight-
en-ing resolve, recovering spaces
between my hefty breaths,
the carotid pumping faster
for relinquishing
control over life-lines,
your eyes penetrating
my mind in an inebriated fullness,
the hourglass, broken,
the vagaries of time forgotten
in its absurd arbitrariness,
— i seek you, i need you, i want you —
i want the length of you against the girth
of me, the walls to be torn off, and
the electricity to wreck my anatomy —
my red lips chapped and bloodied to
your mouth’s savagery,
pick up my pieces, and claim the night
before it scatters to the winds,
and hum the dirge of this happening,
and moan as if this ache is all that is,
this wound is all that we carve
and draw from each other —
purple-bruised, volt-blue on a soft-brown skin
merging into the skin of all things,
submerging into a spell of an age-old
(lost) modus-operandi, for consumption,
— death, little by little,
living, by dying a little more,
and collapsing into heaps of
shins and skins, bones and beings,
and to forget that it ever existed —
this venerable malady of sex and grandiosity,
till loss is the only desire, the only particle
left of me.
© Anmol Arora 2018
For my Guest Post/Prompt at dVerse to be published later today; I am entreating the poets to explore the idea and theme of desire & sexuality in poetry, especially through the perspectives of gender and sexual minorities.
Also linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.
Image source (Neck / Livingston, 1988 by Robert Mapplethorpe)
© Anmol Arora
free-handed percussions — nightly detours
into amatory affairs — touch and wiggle —
the ambient smell of stale booze, fresh-smokes
on their breaths, a chandelier dripping with light,
bursting and blooming into the eyes,
sax and guitar, reverberating desires, up and loud —
the head nods that leave no room for improvisation.
the fingers find their way to the sequestered spots,
recognizing the rising heat in the night-time breeze,
my nips attentive to words grazed against my neck
along the sternocleidomastoids (the tumescence and
detumescence palpable in a cloth traveled melody) —
the blues rise in a leaf-like cadence, my heart palpitates
to the response of my thighs (shuttered, caving all within) —
freehanded percussions, nightly detours that settle
all that rises, as the lights expand in a cross-rhythm,
chaotic, high-rising, groping, grabbing, pulling, spilling,
tinkling down my spine.
© Anmol Arora 2018
For With Real Toads’ Notebook Poetry: I do not know if my writing is even comprehensible — I do write in my notebook at times but mostly it’s when there is a rush of a particular thought or experience and I have to jot it down — so my pen glides all over the page in its need to capture all of it in a jiffy before it extinguishes to nothing — I have taken my time in penning this one down after typing it primarily with a few non-intrusive edits. Ha! As for the poem, I have used the precise terms for a particular reason which delves into the biological aspect, to distance it from desire or want. Hope it doesn’t hinder the experience.
Also linking it with the Poetry Pantry at PU.
***
I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
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