In Memoriam.
Tag Archives: Fiction & Poetry
Duality
Of wanting
and the reactions.
Of the tease
and the injunctions.
Of the touch
and the revulsions.
Of the kiss
and the deductions.
Of the stripping
and the seductions.
Of melting of naked bodies
and the inductions.
Of the aches and sweat
and the conclusions.
Of the slithering memories
and the destructions.
Of the possible repetition
and the needed constructions.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Sometimes (Senryu)
fuck the rules sometimes.
rebel like a metalhead
before its too late.
Unapologetic Love
Beneath the trees
that once nurtured me,
I oversee the valleys.
The Fog descends slowly
like a veil to guard
the modesty of untouched lands
Come morning,
the shimmering sunlight
shall remove the veil
with yellow bright
kisses; lakes and seas
shall mirror the coquettishness
in the blues.
Nature’s unapologetic love
brews in the unseen seasons,
un-noticed somehow.
The Poetry Reading – Bukowski
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god, they must think I love this like the others
but it’s for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I’m tense lousy feel bad
poor people, I’m failing I’m failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it’s too late.
my eyes can’t see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can’t hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that’s it, I’m
finished.
and later in my room
there is scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
Famine
my existence floats
in a boat made up of dreams
over the turbulent seas of death.
the illusion of a charade.
the night’s scythe
cleaves my head:
blood with a famine of words
splatter all over the dusty bed-sheets.
The crucifixion of lies.
the boat trembles, seas rage.
With bleeding toes, my existence
inches towards the edges of insanity
laughing like a suicidal dog with
a growing distaste for chewed bones.
The Paradox of suffering.
I wait for an unheard laughter,
for the air to caress the wind chimes again.
It will all be over soon.
More the blood loss, deeper the ink to write with.
Don’t you think?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Gates
Days worsen
as men leap onto me
in bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their silenced mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up in their
afterlives.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 