I rinse
in the leftovers
of your smell, waiting for you
in the everlasting darkness.
For sometimes
I ache for you:
a perfect amalgamation
of flesh and tender bones
that must have bathed
in a rain of fire in her afterlives.
In morning your slither into our bed in that black dress of yours burning the dichotomy of the dissolved night and the receding day.
I then kiss, make love and regret nothing
like the human who discovered fire.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
If love is a raging sea
then leave me to drown,
till my heart becomes a memory.
It was good in the old days.
The poets were poets.
The writers were writers.
The artists were artists.
Now we have men and women
who under a comfortable roof
and closed doors try to look different
to this world.
They paint, write and create when they feel like.
They call it a Balance.
A Hobby.
A Stress relieving mechanism.
It makes them feel different.
Differently dead from one another.
Dead throughout their days
from the everlasting stupor
induced by the attention of others.
It ends in their dreams I feel.
They don’t have desperation
nailing their back.
The desperation to create something
that shall last a thousand years.
It comes in a few people only.
those who just care about creating.
those who dissolve their souls
on papers and paint it with their blood.
They do have the same passion as others.
But what makes them really different
from others is that they know
passion is like Gasoline.
You have to pour it over yourself
and start the fire
to really feel it.
a kiss of doom
wrapped in dark hues
brews voicelessly.
the light swallows itself.
winds slither through sky
as wolves howl on the new moon.
stars watch mutely.
the tandava begins.
fury of light
bursts the sky in million pieces,
alms of thundering echoes
for mortals under the bed.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
When they ask you,
and I know they will someday.
Tell them it was for
the slice of sky
that smelled like your
tepid past, for nostalgia
reverberating as consensual
currents:
like a dream is forgotten
at the end of the night.
tell them it was for
the glimpse of nature:
the pregenable beauty,
for your assailable heart;
though after being enclosed
in those bony rib-cages,
I knew they would
melt every time
at the slightest touch of you.
It was for that touch.
tell them it was for
end of the everlasting hunger,
an conclusion to this unending madness,
to describe a whirlpool
of blurred visions,
emasculating every second
by the dark whispers in broad
daylight.
When they ask,
Why you started writing,
Tell them it was for yourself only.
For your demons and their exorcisms
performed ritually twice a day.
Tell them it would remain that way.
Forever and ever.
possible dreams,
possible nightmares,
the breakfast for the next day,
a compliment,
a death stare,
Beer
More Beer
Rum,
Scotch,
Sleep,
Wars, Ghosts,
The Reaper,
The Good Looking Reaper
black coffee,
dieting,
morning run,
immortality,
the old gods,
the new gods,
no gods,
aliens,
Paris,
Machu Picchu,
Snow In India,
Rain in Columbia,
Drugs
Alchohol,
Sex,
Possible Sex,
Dream Sex,
A lot of Sex,
A lot of disappointment,
A dream of success,
A Whole New Life,
Songs to listen next day,
Poems,
Writing,
People,
A very minute collection of Imaginations and
thoughts over the course when I lie on the bed
until the sleep comes in.
Disciplined, Careless, Inspiring,
Lazy, Poetic, Dramatic, the various
hues and after-effects of this bed.
It conjures a thousand more within me.
So this is an Ode to the Bed.
The warm haven of my creativity and my destruction.
What do you think while in Bed, Let me know too 🙂
Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.
Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust
The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.
I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.
Writings to Heaven 