beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Ritz by the Sea Shore

They served excellent crabs,
For they usually them boiled alive,
till their skin turned into fresh dark oranges.
Nothing tastes better than a submission ending without an ordeal.

Amidst the hullabaloo of the never closing cash counter, sun-baked foreigners awe over this never seen massacre.
The server, a lady of forty spews half broken greetings all over the table.
Her overnight dreams sweating from her eyebrows.
A mistake would be her beloved nightmare, soon.

I gulp down a dry martini and observe the horizon.
Beaches were always terrifying for me,
A place where I could drown and never be found.
Becoming a bitter aftertaste to my existence.

beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Repetition

It’s that time of the year again,
where the warm bottles of beer
and graveyards of cigarettes lie untouched,
the tongue savours the breeze of ice jewelled air.
The night turns into an abyss,
Cold slithers in as an irresistible prostitute,
the time decants drip by the drip,
stars swirl with ounces of battling warmth,
there is no hibernation, when you need it.
No pauses, when you press yourself of the edges of dissolution.
It’s pure madness, a cocktail of greed, desire, lust and lack of empathy.
The graveyard is lit, the warm river flows to my heart,
Another blackout. Another hangover,
A slick smile at the mirror.
A cycle of no purposes, repeat.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

beauty, Death, dream, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Reasons

I cannot pass sentences,
for I am a city of dust and wreckage,
not abandoned but desolated.
Some of it dissolve in the terms as peace,
Nonchalantly.
I have tasted a valley of dust
with my tongue dried of elixirs of imagination,
Has anybody every told you that every dream
is a shivering icicle that tastes differently under a throat, used to a strange moaning at dawn.

I roam in shawl made of knitted regrets,
Ones with tongue that make my body perspire
in a heat of doomed past, my nipples are refuge of obedience, they disappear for the taste
lacking this irresistible warmth of winter.
I wish I could,
pass sentences,
and swallow cities.
I would have taken the a color of red,
Over whatever is left after dreaming a carnage.
Just to melt,

To disappear,
To be touched,
and caressed,
As all the dreams are reds,
the brights dissolved in darkest hues.

For those who stay up with no reason whatsoever.

creative-writing, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

The Girl with the Ouija Board

Dark sinister whisperings
rouse my soul up,
‘Every Tongue has a demon
buried within its veins, for
it gives birth to thirst,
lust and blood.’
She told me before sleeping,

Archaic hymns, butchered lemons
drowned in vinegar, disappeared behind
a mist of lavender smelling candles,
apexed at pentagram made of saffron

I feel her curves turn cold,
the lips turn ominously black,
‘Eyes are windows to this world,
darkness is the passage to all other’
she keeps murmuring,holding my hand
till it is not she anymore.

I could sense it the way my hands are touched,
the way she removes her clothes then
and the way she kisses.
She never told her of her fetishes
and now I can’t even ask.

beauty, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Pebbles and Rain

It is quite obvious,
The way your tongue will feel
while reading this title:
slithering itself in a wet void.

Your nose now dreams of a petrichor,
The toes shall yearn for the wet grass.
Fingertips aching to scratch the moss
of the exiled pebbles somewhere,

How just a few words,
could tease your senses.

Yet you use a picture to interpolate
your creations

Why?

beauty, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Freehand Writing, Life, Poems, poetry, sadness

Rage

Every drag,
murders the symphony of silence.
I whiff off its ashes and turn this water
in the glass into a fluid cemetery.
The river of disgust now drowns my rage.
I throw it off in the sink and then whisk down the warm beer.

Turning off the lights, I wondered
how many more cigarettes do I need today
to burn this fucking world down.

beauty, creative-writing, Death, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Macabre

A sky sculpted of silence,
At behest of a voiceless cry,
Somebody awaits my hymns again.

My tongue swirls itself :
A snake bathing in the burning blood.

The same nightmare again,
Where my veins smell of dead flowers.

The eyes turn into a vehement dark pond.
A feast of wingless ravens, slowly eating themselves to death :
My heart wasn’t that useful anyways.

Come close today , Stay.
Taste this macabre of my lips.

Writings to Heaven

Shashank Bhardwaj

Category Archives: dream