S & M

Scorching nights

Diffused lights

Slender fingers

Forensic fingerprints

Morbid inquisitiveness

Careless carnality

Breathless knees

Buckled ecstasy

You're so sexy, S

M says

Sex is overrated

Even though

She's just as bored as me

She writes as well

Scintillating, limpid prose with unsettling undercurrents

I love

The economy of expression

The mental masturbation

Abound in her words

And face

Losing self

Embracing breath

Ardent tongues

Avid caress

Aching thighs

Waterfall nuisance

Eerie silhouettes

Wall substance

Slow blue love of delphinium days

S in my head and my head in S

I like reading M

And her

Sorrow- scribbled eyes

Curling up with her on cold, winter afternoons

Laughing at the unexpected humor past midnight

Crying copious tears, when no one's looking; into her

Blood-shedding revelations

Reverentially staring at her

Typically devastating endings

Wishing they'd go on

Just a bit longer

And re-reading the abrupt, last paragraph

Again

And again

Distant thuds

Reflecting skin

Awful stabs

Parted lips

Soul curries

Open mouth

Brimmed senses

Last sobs

I met S in Vienna nine months ago

….

With her chic hair and upturned nose

She was too much

Even today, I'm bewildered by how much she looks

Has always looked

Like a Botticelli angel

The same smudged surreality

As though

Created by the artist in recollection.

I say so what if she's also a bimbo

M, I've known since the time I used to think

That sharpened pencil residues

Turned into erasers if kept overnight in a bowlful of milk under the bed

After an eleven hour bed-in that novel morning

S and I had woken up

Imbibing and assimilating
Every molecule of each other

Apart from that we had

Nothing in common

But she was so sexy that morning too,

All fu**ing, functioning parts of her

You know M,

Onceuponatime

There was something dangerous in writing alone

Not having anyone to share the absurdity with

Not anymore

Now, I want to tattoo my prose on

Your torso

Your clothes

Your face

Your prose

That I read

In graffiti- written subway walls

In my forgotten diary entries

In the new slang of born again Christians

In my mother's scrawled recipes

In rediscovered Shesher Kobita

In Japanese calligraphy and me

In the thin, tin, florescent bookmark

Inside the warm, satin covers

Looking a bit like the small, flaring birthmark

On your upper lip

Pages folded like your arms

Unputdownable like you in mine

It astonishes me that you're so much like

Your writing

Even now I wonder if

Beneath your staccato words,

Lay a mistress of kink

Yes, the evening before, S had called me inside and...

I still remember the scandalous, thin cushioned bed

And the mismatching bedsheets in lime- green checks

As though silent, testimonial witnesses

To our clumsy, clandestine, intercourses

While in Vienna, I looked forward to them

M, you revealed to me that day that you didn't like my writing

You said you found it too sentimental

I said, angrily then, that you too could've been beautiful

But for the faint, ugly, creases under your eyes

That seemed to have marked their journey

From one page to another

And that was when you had started crying

And I had left you right there

But when today I see you, M

In black and white, jacket- cover photos

I want to tell you

That I was lying that day

That you are beautiful

That you always

Were