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.
© SB.
I wanted to be real,
To be a rain in winters,
Whom they cannot despise,
love or forget,
to be a chaotic origin of resentment,
mysterious, magical and everything in between
and beyond.
I was a tofu once,
my liver poisoned by
daily savouring of pure alcohol of dreams,
It didn’t kill me then,
It didn’t kill me now.
Bring your hands and choke
the light within me,
Turn me into a grass spilled with fresh soaked blood,
turn me into a a galaxy of restlessness
with kisses of pause and serenity eloping madness.
I shall write all about it.
Till your eyes melt in dreams of forgetting me,
Again and again,
every night
You poor, dreamer of death.
I bred dreams
without copulation
and with a beserked reality.
The lights were just curtains
made of almonds, grass and rain.
I was still a myth,
a flesh tombstoned alive,
in a forest with no surreal taste for fire.
I counted the pigeons who flew without purpose,
I wasn’t righteous, I wasn’t maniacal
I was being fair
and that blows everybody’s mind.
I kissed my heart in a flood of fire,
It’s ashes still warm, still fire.
You don’t the live you get,
You inherit it from stars who can’t speak
and hence they say, destiny is blind
for my arms still live in a river of scorned ashes
Unable to see, with eyes dazzled with unending fire.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
This Dusk, with its violet lips
slithers in from the windows
It rescues my reclused face
with a knife made up of light
and cold bones:
The eyes are dissolved
in a jar of warm red blood.
to cleanse any memory
of unwanted colours.
I remember when you left, that afternoon
like a rainbow disappears in the untouched mist.
I have been filleting that image
with my nails, now worn out.
But all I get is the taste of bitter gold,
over my tongue and dreams of red autumn
in my sleep.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
This wall with its cracks,
Where every crevice
is an unheard voiceless moan,
becomes an abyss of observation
for my restless eyes.
I trace its tips every night,
Its faint wreckage,
till I could
listen it being fissured
inch by inch by tips unknown
in the viscous dark.
Time melts itself slowly,
dripping all the way to my eyes,
drowning my visions, and if that was not enough
The light brews at the lips of dawn,
flooding the room with a desperate silence,
dissolving the beautiful little chaos in my life,eventually.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Black mass of surreal beauty
all tied and convolved.
I still remember the smell of your hair,
For it traced me to all the paths you took me over your body.
The eyes of temptation do haunt me still,
Like a storm unasked, you blew my thoughts away from your red wet lips,
I could have traced the neck and the sculpted collarbone
caressing all the way to the breasts and sumptuous waist,
drowning in the desirous touch.
But only if you let me.
Should I?
Look into my eyes and answer.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
The hair is veiled
With abysmal darkness
But your smile is the light of those red lips,
You spell an aura of resplendence.
From your fair collarbone and desiring neck,
Your curves tempt every living soul with some youthfulness left in their hearts and a pair of functioning eyes.
Perfectly shaped bosoms,
curved over a black brasserie
That trace towards a series of irresistible
sun baked beauty.
Now move slowly,
Let me forget this image.
I need some sleep,
To dream you again.
Unravelling everything slowly
Till you forget to stop me.
© Shashank Bharadwaj
Writings to Heaven 