THE MALL OF MEN
She chooses men the same way
you’d pick a detergent bar or a cereal box at a hyperstore
Carefully; after looking at the expiry date
manufacturing details, ingredients, trademark, et cetera
(At best, we are museum exhibits or broken seats of the last matinee)
Her aching prurience sways under the glib talk of poetry
While she measures our frame on the totem pole of her abstinence
Our libido must equal her void
Our despair must average her thirst for bestial lunacy
Our rough skin must hold the salt of her childhood
Our torsos must resemble dim hotel rooms or borrowed flats
(Because she has stayed in seven stars with her husband)
Our tongues must carry her bittersweet words
So, when we sweat above her
she can taste herself, more
Her trained irises hunger-spot us for signs of buried trauma
That way, we could be cold-pressed for character arcs first
and then smoothly molten into stories
The acid of our triggered abuse could be used for quick exits
Someday,
We could become poems too
So, she can read the in-between of our giving breaths,
in festivals far and near,
like a lost huntress
while tasting our blood,
forever unpublished.
EXTRA MARITAL
We have an extra-marital affair - with time
Standing at the door with bags packed ready to move out
At the slightest hint of infidelity, ignorance or negligence
Time claims everything when it leaves -
The past sharing of rooms, kisses and windows pasted with evening skies
The earth of our souls and quantum of every journey
The stories we kept repeating and the ones we couldn’t tell
It takes too much when it leaves you for someone else
And worse, for nothing but itself
It’s painful to let time depart
So, we write and rewrite our lives
with the desperation of a thousand atoms
Hoping that time understands our honesty
waits for some more time
a day or two
calling it true love
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