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
The storm and its climatic gore
shatters the neatly arranged
chateau glasses and spills
the well-loved Bordeaux’61
all over the floor.
That night, I sipped the lightning
and smelled the wine for the first time.
A sweet and pungent memory
with a taste too bright for a 7-yr old.
Insanity is an ignifying Ice for us,
as jaws jabble juices of just japes.
kings born with a knack for kingdoms:
with knights kneeling in front of Kahlua and coke.
Love is lust covered in luscious clothes,
mannerisms minimizes into meticulous miseries
as the necessity to kiss numbs numerous women.
Obscenity today tastes like oozes of opium.
my profane heart loves to preach prosperity:
after the plunders of promiscuous nights.
adapt to the axiomatic allusions
as this bewildered belly beseeches,
craving cautiously to control the cancerous mind:
dissolving by defying delusions
and the dearth of decisive decisions.
elixirs evaporate even now,
fermenting into the fickle sky:
gods are gasping ; gorgons are giggling.
heretics and humans slowly cry.
If love is a raging sea
then leave me to drown,
till my heart becomes a memory.
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 🙂
Writings to Heaven 