So tell me
just through your eyes
how was it?
when I conjured a wave
in your flesh through touch
When my hands yearned
to be honey to float over your breasts
tracing your nipples, delving your waist,
evaporating away from a meaningless existence
Did you drown the way you should?
When I was inside you,
and we were birds flying in a sky made of fire
with wings melting away like butter.
Can you tell me,
through just your eyes?
through just your touch?
through just us?
My words were glass
for 14 days.
they shattered over papers
and metallic typewriters,
even on those,
warm as sun-bathed honey.
I somehow learned to arrange
the broken brights.
Let me know, if you can
see yourself in them.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Back from the first long writer’s break, was totally buried in work. It’s time to be back to writing again. 🙂
Fear flows sometimes
and spurts on some days
out from the warm orifices
in the sleep-deprived sweat glands.
A thirst ridden tongue
has a memory of its own.
It dreams of the dirt
and the sweet hymns of an unending rain.
The flag still hangs on my wall
but they keep washing out blood from it.
My hands are tired of holding the bodies I cannot touch.
Another celestial rotation, a swirl of nothingness :
They have made me a man full of unwritten elegies,
who stares into the abyss rhyming a voiceless song of grief.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Corroded decisions,
accumulated as a incompetence in disguise.
Cooked over immature fires
of unfortunate desires.
We are a byproduct of this world,
not promised to anyone.
A flower; crushed.
A voice dawned.
Too early.
We are the last of us.
Unheard, unseen,
the perplexities of our nails
are full of dirt, of truth and fire,
they still haunt the afternoons
in vivid brights.
We chose to surrender
in an aftermath, we cannot smell.
forget the visions now.
Welcome to darkness,
take your shoes off, please.
For the past seven days
I have been floating in the carcass of this boat
dancing to the tunes of mediocrity.
My daisies are now dead.
Their aching souls have found solace
in the howlings of the shameless winds.
It’s so easy to disappear once you are out of words.
You become a shadow with a taste for silence.
The lack-lustered azure shows no remorse
for this land without a song.
It cannot weep tonight,
for the madness in its belly
while groping the breasts
of colorless clouds
has been ejaculated long ago.
I conjure the ripples
over a lifeless lake.
This is one of the last daisies, I found.
A few more hours into this rummage,
and I shall decapitate my existence
with a thirst for words
still lingering over my voiceless tongue.
Feed’em to the hungry dogs.
Call it Poetic Justice.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A new tasteless drink
for embracing voiceless dreams,
fuck the tired senses.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
For clicking a perfect picture,
of a perfectly cooked Ramen,
with eggs beautifully boiled to perfection,
your flabbergasted eyes forget to observe
the tasteful symmetries turning cold; the synchronous diffusion
of the flavor and aroma, conjuring a flood of hunger in your mouth,
eventually gulped in an unapologetic haste.
A long awaited warm nirvana, evaporated
for a moment of senseless creation
that can never fill your insides in reality.
How can you be happy now?
Just how?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 