Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Lives would be stirred. Coffee could do that. Black, bittersweet, tantalising. There was something about coffee he couldn't resist. Ah, making it; he couldn't stand the taste. He drank in only the pleasure on the faces of those he had served - a cup of perfection.
He had been told a million times by pleased customers how delightful and perfectly heady the coffee he made was. He had smiled, pleased, a million times too. He held their keys. He knew their pleasures. He had known they'd come back, every day of his 20 years, in his famous little cafe.
There were five cups already on that side table. "Small, bloody hotel furniture," he would often cuss under his breath. The cups nudged each other, threatening to fall, break. He cringed. Coffee was meant to be served in style; not stolen through the night in places forbidden.
Served in style, alright. She had sent back a neatly folded note, written in a neat hand, placed in a neat little envelope. 'No; this wasn't one of those tacky lipstick smeared pieces of tissue paper', he had noticed. He held the note in his hand and asked the waiter who had sent it. What the waiter pointed at was a flash of canary yellow, leaving the cafe. And bright blue stilettos too. 'How interesting', he had thought. He curiously opened the note, revering each fold, to see what Ms. Bright Blue shoes had to say to him. "MORE." it said.
He had learnt since then that 'more' was about insatiable appetites. They were about endless loops of Coffee... Pleasure... Coffee... Pleasure... Coffee... She had made him brew coffee for her five times on their first night together. One cup at a time. Each time he doubted his excesses, she didn't pull him back; she pushed him away. He obeyed, went to the kitchenette in their suite, and made another cup. The cream and the demerara had found new purposes.
She was unhurried. She'd stretch, each young muscle languorous, and sit up. He couldn't help but envy how unselfconscious she was in her nakedness, as she stretched out her hand and accepted the cup. Each time she would murmur a thanks and sip on the coffee, while he watched. She knew he couldn't just watch for long. She closed her eyes, tasted the hot liquid, smelt it, felt it go down her throat, aware of his growing sense of ecstasy and agony.
Sometimes, she would let a drop sit on her lips and ask him to lick it off. "Bear a little bitter for me," she'd say. And he would oblige.
Ms. Bright Blue shoes returned three days later. Her outfit didn't really match the shoes, but they were her favourite. He noticed them right away; he had been waiting, as he never had before. He also noticed the 20-something nubile body sitting pretty in the shoes. Beautiful toes; mocha in blue. He was 40, but he went right ahead. "More?" he had asked her, half expecting her to giggle in response. But she had raised her head from her book nonchalantly, looked straight into his eyes and said, "I see you can read. Yes, please."
He was hurt and pleased. He had served her three vengefully dark cups on that day, knowing well this addiction would be hard to break.
He tasted the bitter drop, then her lips. The green apple chapstick flavour was long gone. Her mouth was now lined with his bitter espressos. He winced at the first taste. He had to have his own back first, and then he could have her. He cupped her pert little breast in one hand and took away her cup with the other - placing it carefully on the side table. He then forced her down on the bed, picked up a spoonful of thick, white cream and smeared some on her coffee-coloured, sculpted back. He licked it. Rubbed in coarse grains of brown sugar too, hurting her. He never minded coffee's counterparts. She turned around, pulled him closer and locked her lips with his. He stroked her, caressed her and teased her, till she could take no more. She begged him to take her. He nodded. He entered her, eyes fixed on her face, watching every crest and trough of pleasure and pain. It was like watching a connoisseur's face, as they drank in that pleasurable liquid. He smiled. He knew there would be more.
I know myself well enough to have foreseen that The Phase would be just that. I'm growing out of it. Poetry arrived, we danced and it now leaves. As all good things must. From The Phase - Part 2, where I graduated from micropoetry to microfiction, this third phase was about exploring the many fun WOTD (word of the day) games people play on Twitter. What lovely kindred spirits I have found in this journey. People, who've shown me that beauty is a mission, competition and sometimes, just love. This last compilation here marks the end of my romance with Twitter poetry, albeit only on my blog. I'll continue to write them on Twitter when inspiration grabs me by the throat, and stories and thoughts and things that may or may not touch you. But a lot of my heart is in these.
121. Behind closed doors/ inside fantastic wardrobes/ she wears an alias; then another/ casts them off like used lovers/ remorselessly.
122. Am I glad ~ Am I not ~ That you are you ~ That you are not ~ a subservient slave ~ I better be ~ to this place of illusions
123. He runs by me/ a bit of memory/ quiet, like a droplet/ a slow flow down my back/ making me aware, he is there/ yet not
124. He held her left arm supinate, locked her right arm in his. And offset the cold satin on her belly, with his warm breaths on her back.
125. He says nothing for a moment/ she says nothing for two/ titillating pauses talk/ making erotic silent stories
126. Her arched back, a crossbow ~ his arm holding it, an arrow ~ and passion in the wings ~ waiting to strike them down
128. Don't leave; not yet, darling/ paper cuts are yet to be/ as I hold sharp sheets to my throat/ coaxing my voice, to write what it won't say
129. But they never looked at her nails. Just her unusually brave face, that awaited the news of a catastrophe, with a strange calm.
130. She seemed fine. Only those mercilessly chewed-upon nails could give her fears away. With news of war each day, she prayed and chewed.
131. There stands a pot of dye/ and here stand I/ and what stands between us/ is an acknowledgement of age.
132. Camera in hand, he waited for an efficacious light. One day, two days and ten. Meanwhile, the muse, bored of waiting, grew fat on fries.
133. An acapella rings out ~ sweet sounds of doubt ~ he loves me ~ he loves me not
134. Nurture it with waters cold/ tender with lessons of old/ but the little tinder will grow bold/ make fire; for it was born to burn
135. Glory be to the mother/ a Yashoda unsung/ and stories of her tears/ that went uncelebrated
136. His head on Rukmini's lap ~ repose playing coy ~ the peacock feathered brow ~ lets the universe rest on it
137. The battlefield reeked of death. The Parthasarathi breathed in. Equanimity. As if it were no different from the happy place by the Yamuna.
138. Radhika's skies ~ forever a blue ~ tinted days and nights ~ in her Shyam's hue.
139. "But, can I lose no more battles? Can I not run away again?" lamented the Ranchhod. Only one folly was no fair allowance to his human form.
140. And he left her behind/ with his flute for solace/ "Why the need, dear Krishna/ when you take away the music?"
141. The apple of her eye ~ charms another ~ she glows and burns ~ the mother, Yashoda
142. As it stuck to plants/ the curses stuck to him/ 'But where will I go?'/ asks the hapless aphid
143. Hush, my friend/ silences are not naught/ there are loud latent meanings/ if you
144. I call it the Urge Montage. Here, you see hunger, here, ambition, here murder, here, escape, here, a scream, here, a dream.
145. I recall the scent/ of that moment when/ pinned against a wall/ I awaited your kiss/ joys imploding in me
146. The air up here, silent normally/ dares today, to see what it can be/ to stretch its boundaries/ with some sibilant slicing of the night sky
147. Summer dreams in a winter's night/ rain thirsty, summer-parched minds/ a nice, dry corner, want the damp spirits/ our lives, forever wanting
149. Relief is seeping in now. Life is seeping out. She lets go her last breath too. Her revenge complete.
150. There was so much rage. She sits over his body, savours his lifeless face. Celebrates his decomposition. The blood on the floor, now brown.
151. He kept turning around, saying "Shoo!" and their wonder kept increasing.
152. He seemed odd. And more people walked along, driven by their curiosities. The man, who was different, in being himself, was branded messiah.
153. Lower your eyes; they make me tremble/ they make buckle, under passion/ lower your eyes, for I think vice/ Oh won't you, lower your eyes?
154. In the swell of her breasts ~ and the curve of her hips ~ and the flaming red of her lips ~ inscribed, her artful lover's name
155. He shows me, he loves me/ in quaint little ways / when he gets up and dances/ two left feet and his heart
156. Then he said, "There is news..." #sixwords
157. Sweet memories of a virgin night ~ when your maladroit fingers ~ earnest to love me right ~ found the man and woman in us
158. The spaces between us/ frozen solid/ won't let leave/ won't let love
159. Cakes and ale, and ring and aisle/ were the beginning of a promise/ we've smiled and cried and grown since then/ into man and wife and one
160. Proving my love to you/ is a blade walk/ I'd rather not do/ you don't want blood/ on your hands too
161. I hold still, as this soporific day/ slithers, stops, slithers; upon my very face/ I blink not, afraid/ its languorous yawn will claim me
162. An ancient practice, among practitioners of sophism, needs them to ride vicious cycles, in pointless circles.
163. There's a little coffee at the bottom of the mug. And there's some ash. Some chewed gum. Hair. Tissue used to wipe whatnot. A story too.
164. A room laden with the unsaid/ putrid fumes of silence/ a war of vile stares/ warriors armed with tacit
165. He waited, ring in hand/ on his knees, heart on sleeve/ She took too long, to get her makeup on/ his kneecaps hurt, and he left.
166. I see you are back; bags and all / Love is back too, I presume / Shall we talk now, start again / Or live in tacit silence?
167. Strangers, made lovers/ for a short while, on a small walk/ cried when the path forked/ for they could hold hands, no longer
168. Come, let's talk you out of that xenophobia. Let's tell you how, beneath their layers, are smiles and tears, just like yours.
169. Looks like we let them win/ looks like time and space walked in/ to the sacred space between us/ looks like we drifted
170. How unfair, sweet lover/ that you should look away/ while I look for you/ in the fragments of an old love
171. A surfeit of charm ~ in the charming rogue ~ was the undoing of the rogue ~ with a roguish charm
172. You wouldn't know that little Pied Piper's favourite teddy bear was eaten up by mice.
173. Sudden death ~ a cruel kindness ~ no time for goodbyes ~ no need for them
174. Little girls, holding kite string wheels. Wait in hope, that they will be allowed to fly. Wait till they learn some important lessons.
175. A broken warehouse ~ happy times in clogged wheels ~ an unkind verisimilitude ~ to the owner's life
176. A séance ~ to call forth her own soul ~ to check if ~ she was living or dead
177. Give not all and stop not all/ for wasn't it when/ He clipped his wings/ that archangel turned archenemy?
178. I could hear them clash ~ steely swords of ego ~ father, son and Oedipus ~ demanding pieces of me
179. He sought a slavegirl. A perfect ebony. To hold still and be laden with treasures. "For what is more luscious than gold on black?" he'd say.
180. Unlearn the wheel some day ~ feel your feet again ~ stand still for a while ~ and talk to your roots.
181. When you won't stay, I hold your apparition hostage. Force my love on it, force it to love me. Dance with it, as one, until you come back.
182. Trapped. She found two exit doors. One on the ceiling, one on the floor. It was a nightmare, because she was chained to the walls. Trapped.
183. I'm tearing pages, I'm tearing pages/ doing away with my rages/ forgetting songs of heartbreak/ and laughing because I once cried
184. The room stank of stale perfume and all things faux. Pearls, labels, hair, breasts. The reporter's winning story: The Death of a Drag Queen
185. I remember a stranger from many winters ago. I remember only his lips. Trembling, shivering lips. Perhaps in need for warmth. Inside out.
186. How sad this world/ that needs a loss/ to unite/ and not love
187. How beautiful is that unbending spirit of a child, luminous with self-belief, untouched by self-doubt.
188. A bottomless well. An endless spiral staircase. A very dark darkness. A tearing temptation to climb down to see where it ends, if it does.
189. Chocolate. Dark. Passion. Molten. Sweet. Bitter-sweet. Lips. Swirl. Fulfill. Trickle. Lick. Dance. Tongue. Smooth. Languor. Bitten. Smitten.
190. In the flash of his glistening axe/ the soldier saw beauty/ a nobler call for duty/ towards that of his own heart
191. I have a wooden box/ empty and not/ for it holds life stories/ of the soil, and tree and man
192. There's a step to choose/ while you're at the fringe/ into or away from/ the wilderness called loneliness
193. The mind ~ an illusionist ~ a contortionist ~ an escape artist too
194. His father's shoes, his razor, his shirt. "Try not to fit into them so soon, my son. They have untold miles and blood and sweat in them."
195. Truth rasps ~ like a breathless fish ~ in a sea of wrongs ~ that soak our gills
196. Mild, but then/ a battleground it is/ motherhood has, but/ valour medals in smiles
197. It's a crack in the night sky ~ that travels, grows and shrinks ~ they say it's the moon ~ I say it's a piece of the next day
198. Place caution on a winnow/ throw it to the winds/ let them scatter, make small/ and do what you will
199. A checkered path ~ one black step ~ after a white ~ if you choose ~ to walk straight
200. A love born of my womb/ whence I see you sleep/ feel a love that makes me strong/ and a love that makes me weak
201. One wrong held aloft ~ among a hundred rights, trivialised ~ to shine like a beacon ~ to be spat upon
202. The wine glass stood empty/ Save for some drops of memory/ An echo of sweet nothings/ and savoured, fermented grape juice
203. Somedays, words on a deathbed lie/ but then comes a horse, muse astride/ wrings my heart with passion/ love children born of my pen
204. Waves. Thick and fast,/ the black soporific/ engulf and drown/ the blank eyed ruse of wakefulness.
205. A silent knife/ a skillful carver/ a restless heart/ an effortless groove.
206. He stripped them of colour/ To make blacks black, and whites white/ A frame of truth/ Bared for beauty
207. To watch a hurricane go by/ shreds of life in its wake/ death dotting street sides/ simple pleasures of a lensman
208. Only the lights danced/ only the shadows moved/ created intimate, intricate patterns/ with two perfect strangers
209. Rinsed of its history/ a short-lived romance/ blank pages/ want ink again
210. A hapless mother/ a mother no less/ a broken heart in a wicker basket/ a Moses or a Karna
211. Lingering old love/ like the musty after-rain smell/ in my clothes, in my hair/ a mud patch in my heart
212. You sound familiar. The sound of words I've never uttered. Sometimes, I feel I'm on both ends of the telephone.
213. Intertwined destinies/ like vines of different leaf/ distinct, but fused/ a source of life to each other
214. Been a while since I looked/ young hands are old now/ but they hold on still/ marking lines in the other's palm.
215. Peace, over wine glasses/ shattered by the mundane/ pick up the pieces, start again/ an ordinary Monday in a briefcase
216. Just because I let you be/ unfettered, without curtains/ you let my secrets out/ O vile, wicked window!
217. A new set of numbers/ two zero one one/ perhaps have meanings for some/ perhaps they have none.
218. Buttons, unbuttoned. Zips, unzipped. Hooks, unhooked. Mixed breaths and unintended confessions. A few reds had caught them off guard.
219. New year eve stories: A loner | A performer | An early sleeper | A drinker | A doctor | A TV watcher | A bouncer | A wannabe | A granny.
220. A word of love, ignites another/ falling in line, in rhyme/ one heart's tune, a melody then/ making music of the soul together
221. You got no place/ for a soul out cold/ in your hearth or your heart/ and you demand a warm obituary?
222. A shiny trajectory/ your space, your time, your pace/ a happy little place/ the moment you stand in/ the finish line and the start.
223. There are darknesses to touch too. That smooth quiet of after dusk. That velvet peace of night. That silken sleep. Feel all, fall free.
224. Pour all lovers in a mosh pit. Let their bodies mingle. With the mud, the blood and the lust. Let the names be gone. Let only passion play.
225. Despite the silk of her scarf and the svelte black dress, worked a fervent fantasy. An aquiline nose. And a cosmetic surgeon's address.
226. Behind that jinx, is perhaps a benevolence. Clad in failure of your intent. Perhaps you're not meant to get there yet. And learn to wait.
227. How terrifying the gift of foresight is/ to not make a mistake, cold and perfect/ to not fall and laugh/ to not want to play with fire.
228. Crows feet and mellowed tempers/ laugh lines and stretch marks/ little badges of honour/ for being a sport about passing time.
229. A famous seer. He could tell all. Because he knew all. Because he studied all. Because he wanted to defeat fate. Because he was born blind.
230. Her hand slid up his jacket sleeve. Felt the silk lining, a scar and her life. A healed gunshot wound. One he had shielded her from.
231. One hot-blooded encounter. Then silence. Like a heavy, inconspicuous layer of cream. On a forgotten cup of coffee by the bedside.
232. The prisoner laughed at them mockingly. So they erased his past and then set him free. Consigned him thus, to a life of no memory.
233. Place me in a place I know not/ tell me a tale of anonymous passion/ pry open my lids to some irony/ force upon me a vicissitude.
234. Disjointed fragments of reality/ a phantasmagoric world, spun/ around truths and make-believes/ he chooses to live in his personal cliché.
235. Mystic byroads in a mundane life/ lit up and drew me in/ when Hafiz spoke and Rumi sang/ my dervish soul twirled and followed
236. I ask to stand tall ~ my head in the clouds ~ yet feet on the ground ~ an impossibly beautiful flux ~ of humility and grandeur.
237. I am really a child, a happy child. And I got a toy box full of big, bright words. I play some, I strew some, I chew some. Then I go to bed.
238. Armed with a slingshot/ over a field of dreams/ hurtling verses at naysayers/ she defended with poesy.
239. "My heart's not dark," says he/ "My mind isn't dark," says he/ "My words aren't dark," says he/ "It's that dust on the bloody window."
240. His beauty, she beheld/ was rendered a glassy-eyed fool/ begged him to set her free/ by shattering her dreams with vanity.