morning

and dawn looks through the French windows,
ruffles my hair
and slips in between the sheets

knocks on the door of my breath
and listens to me
with an ear to my chest

listens
to the tangerine ring
of sleep slowly
finding my dream

again

and it opens
like a bell
singing arpeggios
in the quiet
street of your city

she strokes me slowly
runs her patient lips over
my skin, that breathes
– a river in spate
rising
and gathering its wits
about itself

and the flotsam of my conversation
is awash in the tide of
her muffled ecstasy
and her fingers tease out
my silence
my city

she smiles as I
grow quiet before
the slowly unfolding poem of
an empty road
peopled in the mist
that grows like the cracklebuzz
in an audience before a play

peopled by the pungent smell
of an idea that has seized
youths by the ragged shocks
of black brown dusty hair,
that mixes with beedis
and sheets of geometric roadmap
to paradise

and anger is sold
cheap. The shadow of
a glass building falls on the edge
and young people walk around it
quietly in whispers
others mutter at each other

and morning slips in between
the cutting chai fumes that
carry their lonely sighs

of a dormant resistance

 

as she holds me and the
soft velvet of her tongue
on my neck, a little bird
that nibbles away at my loneliness

and I turn away
but she won’t let me
sleep, she won’t let
me exile my mind
to azad, and the city of paradise

and still her fingers
search for absolution
like a prayer searching for
god, in the heady temple air
or in a garbage bin
hungry for some attention she
teaches me to wake up
and smell the smoke

I turn and watch her

naked, rough, ancient

my hands find her hips
that curve and fit into
my palm, and her body nods.
her waist is an answer
to the searching question
folded into my eyes
and arced hands

the question that never dies
that keeps me awake
and lights up my living days;
that leaves its charred remains
on the pages of my notebook
and lingers on in the dust
at the edge of the windowpane
the question that has no answers
or too many for me to digest

I look at her, pale,
helpless, unable to return to
the city, unable to escape

and she nods, and places a
coy, but insistent finger
on my lips

and then buries my head
in her breasts

morning is here

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About teevramadhyam

'I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity' -Poe
This entry was posted in ananth, Bombay, Could be verse, epiphany, hmmm, I want to ride my bicycle, kaha gaye woh din, Lou, middle class mithya and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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