How brutal would it be,
to draw a line in the air on something
of interest, with your eyes:
to be in awe of the subdued parallax
and then simply call it beautiful.
Won’t your fingers itch before doing so?
Won’t they feel the need to caress the surface
before labeling its existence beyond question?
Won’t your tongue go dry of thirst
seeing its colors untasted and unspilled.
Do you really love,
symmetry to this extent?
You forgot the chaos
you were born in.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.
You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.
The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.
You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.
The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Blood soaked ribs, smoked to death,
draped over with velvety violet,
over the mahogany dripping table.
The sunlight prays to mate with this smell,
Come, child, tell me
When was the last time
you smelled light and travelled through time?
When was the last time
you tasted an abyss and it was sweeter than
the wind that flows in a thousand valleys
all drenched in rain.
The laundry box looks like it has been shot
twice, a fucking mess, its internals,
your second skin is all over the floor.
But you pick up the whitest white and head
to the room with no sunlight, no smell,
no eyes.
Why?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Bound, tied and muted to surprise,
you lay down on my bed, naked as a prize.
I veil your eyes in this never ending darkness,
whispering to intensify this sumptuous treat,
As I pour freshly molten wax drops all over your body,
to make sure that tonight, you cannot sleep,
Come warm my hands now slowly ,
Take them between your tempting legs,
I will try to melt them with my tongue,
If you just tell me ‘Yes!’
© Shashank Bhardwaj
How long can a butterfly with no wings
can retain its colour,
After how many touches would its fragile flesh
crumble to rust?
If only, rains were the nectar of amrut,
We would never be seen weeping near the ghats.
If only, the drought could make things disappear
I wouldn’t be preserving your ashes like this.
If only, my hands could forget raising you.
I would have dipped them in green all my life, for you.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I want to hear impatient moans
everytime I feel your skin with my tongue,
For I am blind to it’s contours and wetness,
My hands only tends to the voices of flesh,
I silence the desires with my fingers
Till they wet or tired
Or both.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 