How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.
To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,
to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.
to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
ever.
How hard would it be?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I still remember
the way you swam away,
wriggling out of your clothes,
I could see your wet breasts,
with the tips still drowned in drops.
You took my hand between your legs,
and whispered me to begin my art
of dissolving your shyness into thousand
moans of madness.
The tips turned dry, begging me to lick their
shame of existence away.
I worked through them, I worked below you too.
I sculpted a river of ecstacy within you,
and you went through all, by letting our tongues
mute our lives for sometimes.
The silence, we could still hear.
The silence, we can never forget.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
This is one of the finest pieces of Poetry\Prose dissolved in music. I decided to share this with all of you. Let me know what do you think of it.
Artist : Eden Ahbez
Song : The Wanderer
a thirst,
is the dryness that floats from the throat
is the snow that burns everything
is the fire without a crackling voice
is the river polluted with a meaningless existence
is the reality drinking bottles of dreams
is the death despised deeply
is the shadow unloved
is a blessing and a curse.
is the human, too much loved.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Dance to the frivolous melodies,
the time still remains.
We are still children,
sobered under the sun,
sobered by the rain.
A memory is a drop wiped away from the lips,
A potent taste was forgotten on purpose.
To become a child, forget your hands first.
The rain envelops the waves of time,
so learn to close your eyes,
long enough without sleeping
without drifting without crying
and the present will wash off itself
You will be on a ground,
with fresh wet grass,
Your dog still alive,
the cakes do not make you fat,
it’s beautiful,
as it should be,
as I was promised,
long ago.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I think I am back again
somewhere beneath a cold restless wave
where the smell of a forgotten regret lingers.
A thousand eyes map my dread
and serve it back to my face
with a voiceless discontent.
I swirl like a newborn,
till I forget the smell of the skies.
An embellishment for the stars
seeing me slip into an oblivion.
“One’s misery is a supper of pleasure for another”
my demented grandma used to blurt.
She loved eating fish
and now the fishes are laughing,
the limb-lacking unbearable slimy creatures,
are choked with laughter, over my unending dread.
“Kill a fish yourself, let its blood cleanse
your dreams.”
said the friendly psychiatrist.
the crazy fucker didn’t even know,
that it all began from there,
from those very struggling eyes
near to the gills.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Pour it all
and spread it slowly
with your bare hands,
this cream isn’t that sweet
but you are gonna like it anyway,
so come and swallow it
as you suck me out,
and I close my eyes.
Take it all in,
let me feel the saliva mix
with the cream and melt.
Go on at your pace,
I can wait, in darkness,
all night, all day,
just don’t stop in between,
tonight.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 