The collar bone is a mellow beauty
held by infallible black straps of the unknown
that leads to softer dominions of flesh below.
Your smile above is etched in the eye,
But my hands forget those after
Seeing the soft sumptuous breasts within the black halter that acts as the veil,
the arched back tempts my lips just by imagining it
firmed by a comfortable lacy black hook.
It goes down in a perfect curve of desire to the hips and below,
I believe someone sculpted you,
Am I right?
From neck to the tempting breasts and to the waist, some did sculpted those curves in your body
Don’t tell me wrong now.
I can see it.
Category Archives: Poems
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.
Lie
The hair is all spiraled up and soft
with the ends loose,
Burned of a fire black, but still
exists as the creamy mass of delicacy.
Your smile is a carved wet symphony
A sound in silence, with eyelashes the color of offsprings of dark.
The skin bloom of a pink becomes your second skin,over the fair white,
Sculpting your body, caressing and holding
Your bosoms and curves firmly in a strap of color known
Every curve traced melodiously,
The smile can make anyone forget the touch of all soft curves below the neck and beyond.
But I am a poet, not like the rest of them,
I would go down below, to live all
with my same bare hands with which i write.
Because they have never learned to lie.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Existence
Time is a sinful cigarettes
It spills my lungs
Over a river of warm clotted blood.
I inhale as if, to breathe in myself,
In exhilaration, I forget my face in smoke,
The cold winds whispers me, to die young.
To breath my corpse and rejoice in its irregularities,
Would you dance against yours,
Melting your toes and bone and pupils,
As the leaves of melt with an unending
snow to camouflage the remains.
Just one more drag, love
Its a final kiss from a melting skull
that yearns for the flesh and itches.
Pull me close baby, show me your naked house.
Let me live, as you die.
In smoke of your existence
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Taste of Dawn
The night melts away,
My skin is still stained with its dark remains,
Bring me the curtain of a window,
where I learned to stop waiting
It could cleanse my dreams
that still make love to my lips.
The dawn breathes into me
With light and nothingness.
A thousand zephyrs on the way
To a bright asylum, their exodus is a soundless whimper.
It tastes like burnt omelettes on a hungry stomach
The daffodils don’t help either.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Actions
Every drift
Is a cartilage bearing
the sins of a unbearable capillary
The sentences of no remorse
comes in forms.
A wild stag robbed of its skin,
over a snow that even melts eyeballs,
tells me of a impatient mind.
Broken chateau glasses in season of fall
with no stains of warm blood over floor,
tells of wrath, that puked out of a heart dying of collapsing walls of insecurity
A man observing both, in vortex of time
Is stuck as a blob of ice feeling,
not knowing when to melt and when to burn.
A peace he cannot drink or spit
But bear with his actions.
Why
A black viscous river
adorned by the light of moonlight
Moves over your cheeks and neck,
an irresistible silk woven pack of hair,
dissolving the color of your eyes
But not the lips, wine red.
The arch of the chin meets shoulder
with the warm flesh intact and curved
Over your body.
It no mosaic or painting
But God’s idea of a natural painting.
The curves move as a tempting thirsty river
from your back to the sculpted arch of the waist,
every touch is a desirous attempt to moksha,
The bones still warm now, the heart still soft,
The straps refine the curve with its color unknown,
Caressing the soft mounds below the neck to the tapered waist and way below.
Do you imagine yourself this way?
Why not?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 