I could help you out,
by an unhook, a tweeny move,
But who shall hold your wings then,
When the bra falls of the grounds
and the breasts turn to voluptuous beasts of touch.
The arch of the back shall intensify the visions
For a sword out of a sheath shines and tastes the brightest.
I could taste em, the edges of your sword made collarbone,
Promise you shall read my work for lifetime,
If i lost my tongue caressing your body
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I lit my sins,
with uneven puffs.
This four legged famished beauty,
Whimpers at my arrival.
The cost of redemption for tonight,
is just a Parle-G costing 5.
His dusted eyes chews my innocence,
I tremble with an alcohol choked breath
I search for my wallet :
While my inherent identity made of coins gets molested by a bark from stomach.
His nose has evolved a knack for sniffing the midnight deluded from the crowd
He savors the feast of the road while his tail wags.
My sins eviscerate in every dreams I have.
But I had fed a dog, Couldn’t it be better?
Than smelling his hunger and seeing him disappear
I have become, what I have always feared.
A god who sends rain
and drowns those get too close.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
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.
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.
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
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
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
Writings to Heaven 