Andrew, the indefatigable
Going down on her
In the elevator
Mouthing poetry in between inventive sex
And my chunky black Scorcese spectacles dangling on my (then scrawny) nose
Words flowing with as much irritating reluctance
As my second orgasm that night
I don't know where to start
I love every millimeter of her
Her body like a map that shows too much and is therefore useless
But do you want to fuck her Sir?
Eventually, yes
I'd love to turn you on
They're just a little bit stuck in the middle for now
Elevator Music
Their darkened reflections in voyeuristic opaque mirrors looking back at them
And always a vestige of Mr. Aniruddha Kanti Sen
His horn rimmed spectacles
His Holmesian pipe
His barrister books
As though silent, testimonial witnesses
She's afraid that
Just like Devdas, he would barge into the room anytime and say,
“Daurja Kholo Paaro”
But he doesn't
It's like they've managed to stop time somehow
Somewhere between the eighth and ninth floorThere's just enough time
For a sixty nine
No comments:
Post a Comment