Those lips did smoke from within
Very hot air to kill any kind of love
Like prosperous balloons they rip apart
One in crime without being hurt.
I call them Jamaican waves of love
That made the lovers in their jovial frolly
After all one bears the heat above
Slipping all throughout in jolly.
Let me die in your lips when we war
So far so they can pull my heart
In my conquest of your polite lips
I give it a damn if they are fart.
They were climbing up the hill
Pearl beads were made from their sweats
Rolling down like a clean stream;
One which works hard all throughout
And their realm so intent of their beads
They were inseparable from their film.
More and more my vision focused
I could identify them and their needs.
All were different but me travelling times;
When times met as dense as clouds
Before they melt all into one and join the stream
Once again to pick up the beads that had fallen.
The moments came to capture the beads
So that the nerves wretched to the extreme
Along with a sudden jerk the dream evaporated;
Leaving behind a few of them to form pixels
That made an image of the present time
Ah it was all timeless in my last night sleep!
Like Henry I swayed my sword upon
White pages but dark without wisdom
Attacking the palace of Palestine
And contravening the head of the bishop
I crowned myself the unborn emperor.
I rode the chariot of the sun
The moon being my abstract driver
Drawing out stars into constellation of demons
So that I can chalk them out one new moon night
And become the marshal of Constantine laws.
Here on my pages I made god’s descend
Make love to live forms like never before
I have solved the mysteries before and after birth
But nothing is reinvented and remained as they were
Not buried this time but surfacing like clouds that will rain.
There is a sense of profound grief and joy
blended in the much awaited rain drops,
the moment they escape from the cloud-hills.
As if they have waited for years of freedom
and those years have been slow and fast,
eluding glory from the tiny soldiers marching
towards death in the pit of the thirsty hell.
In the kingdom of Cloud-hills they were gods
of divine evolution waiting for a supreme order,
to re-unite with the earth’s crust into matter-
tiny beads of light, happiness, love.
So they kiss the grass, fix the butterflies,
Wets the soil to become fertile like the mother’s womb-
And then die gradually for another birth.
When an army of congruent efforts
Hide away the blurs of truth for smile
And paints mischief like never before
A community of applause is born.
Same jargon of satires where I left last time
They stand like shameless souls weaker enough
And lose their naked counterparts which became bold
Enough to paint their skins and garden their hairs.
The beginning of the body as geometric machines
To demonstrate humankind rather than mankind
And sex equally splits into male, female, gay, lesbian
Spoiling the colors of your beautiful rainbow into one.
Where opinions vary and similes carry
But nude facts are sincerely presented
To carry a soul into our very build world
Welcome to the world of fashion & fashionistas.
They mean it with lingerie
or almost nude hanging boobs
almost strolling out from within
as if they deny the prison there
that beholds and preserves conspiracy.
Chiffon bits glued to buttered butts
that dwindles either ways without
any declaration of war from each side
and only sensitive enough to react upon
high pencil edged sharp heels point touched.
They mean deep well navels crowned with
meaningless metal caps in place of ear rings
and their shameless faces dressed with colors
so much difficult to understand the brands
they represent each such pastel that robs them.
To further de-glamourise their stupid animosity
sudden malfunctioning of their bra-straps
or accidental slippage of intended tight gowns
making foolish gays popular and millionaires-
these models evidenced their killers via sharp nails.
Living in your dreams,
I only say,
I love you!
You fancied your palace,
Of yellow roses-
I plucked them,
For your medley dozes,
And you sank in my,
Boat of love…
My faith kindled,
Dwindled me fart…
Living in your dreams,
I only say,
I love you!
A ferocious goblet of fire,
That once burned my desire,
In the tiny blemishes that bled.
Reacted like nitric acid,
Corroding our fake homes pallid,
That soaked every smoke between souls.
Became the chalice of profuse disease,
That kept me away from natural release,
Like some yellow lady in Connecticut*.
Yellow Lady in Connecticut- A rare wild flower in that region
As I began to climb the campus stairs,
All alone with a numb ache-
A depression blocked those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that frequently thins.
A kind of a genetic disorder that robs me off-
All of my terrible hormones that loses competition,
A competition so heroic called youth,
That settles the score of my sexual life.
A physical length that reduces me to a dwarf,
Almost an intelligent ape that snubs too-
And cannot have biology with another species,
That adores a disqualified creature of its size.
What can make me happy?
What do I want then?
Shall I need those beautiful preachers of opposite genes?
Shall I claim their eminence in my life?
Or leave them for those eligible bachelors?
As I landed my nose in the campus pillars,
And nobody cared but me-
A stimulus recoiled and resurrected those minute vessels,
That carries my vital fluid that became viscous again.
The day we rolled together-
Rolled and rolled down the alley,
Bended the vertical bushes horizontal,
Our laughter echoed up to the sun,
We baked our souls flesh in hot and warmth,
Whistling together and bruising each other,
With our passion filled ignited feelings,
When the stags turned back to our privacy,
Has come to an end-
With the sun setting off the wounded bushes,
Without returning the glory offered by us,
And absorbing our pleasures for its radiance,
That will dissipate the heat next day,
Exposing our bare protrusions uncontrolled,
For another few hours burning,
Like a corpse turning into ashes,
Where a rickety dog wears soot in abundance.
I was like the jungle king,
She was like the jungle queen,
She was running nude,
Except wearing those flowers,
And I was wearing the waves,
That kissed me otherwise nude.
All those strange creatures on the beach,
They all ignored us for burning together,
Burning for sin,
Craving for sin,
Like the reptiles being swallowed by their dens,
The cock of a man,
Kissing the pit of a woman,
The evolution of thirst,
The ejaculation of burst,
Everything protected by the transparent curtains of water.
She was like the jungle queen,
I was like the jungle king,
I was fucking her crude,
Except my censored spermatozoon blushing out,
And she was nowhere to consume,
My sapid feelings in her faked frame.
I have never seen a mermaid-
With her fins so slender and gentle;
Or when you swim so weightless in water-
Any of them could have done with their bristle.
Cindrella could not have looked so ugly beautiful,
When you ran down to me leaving those landscapes behind;
And in the course you have broken the straps of your silver shoes,
Glow and shadow on your face were contemporaries and dutiful.
I have never imagined an angel nude-
With their breasts hanging for becoming stiff with magic,
Comparing your vagina to a sorcerers cave without any logic-
And you release fireballs from your canon eyes crushing me so rude.
Mystique is back!
This time, with more intent metaphors and the intention is the same. Expressing passion, breaking the bridles of self-control, the most wildest of the things one can imagine and offer to his beloved. The charm evolves from the strangest of the compliments sang by the lover. What seems to be an assault to the beloved’s personal parts, are actually soothing to her considering the sincerity of the lover-boy.
So chant this magic of romantic charm!
Chasing the dreams to touch the sky, shaking the roots of feminism;
Happy to shoot for the Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Gia's plagiarism-
All for her superstar Angel, she lived the attitude of lesbianism;
From Philadelphia to New York she sold, her fraternity and parental prism-
The ambitious gal, the ambition gal felt addicted to cocaine and heroinism.
Climbing the hills in Beverly was not tough enough, shredding chastity for mean;
Hallowing for her Tomb Raider, she swallowed her city of sin-
All in her attempts she brewed her habits, she tattooed destiny for her queen;
From abortion to scandals; she breathed to see her prolific akin-
The injured gal, the pitted gal still nearly was not doomed to grin.
Succumbing like the serpentine in salt, still longing to meet her dream star;
One fine morning she was found half-dead down the alley, waging her life-war-
All the fever she had, yet not looking to get out of the foxfire;
From one hospital to another, she was taken and was declared a patient of cancer;
The lucky gal, the fucking gal was lame enough to meet her jester.
The tumor had eaten her bones, like the steroids that made her a body-
Donating a million dollars in charity, made a brief appearance by Angelina Jollie;
All in her graceful charm, she penetrated hope to fight the disease folly-
From a life directionless to the motive of her strife, she kissed her cheeks and regretted being silly-
The ambitious gal, the ambition gal had just a single day to cherish her so called glory.
I think your blue eyes conspire-
Waves of your hypnotic sexual prowess,
Renders an un-imaginable scepter-
That rules the world beside you oh princess!
I just wanna have you,
I just wanna grab you,
Like plucking out the stars from the sky-
Like ruthlessly waging a war for cosmic defy!
No single thread between you and me-
As if the centrifugal force holding the planets,
That preserves the stellar discipline in the quantum packets-
Close your eyes and wish me to the comets falling free!
I was standing straight-
My hands benighted down,
Little bend towards the lord,
And they called my guilty posture.
When I closed my eyes slightly wet-
They dressed me in the butcher’s gown,
Aimlessly swaying my sword,
Goat masks swinging like pendulum’s structure.
Behind me were tall men in cloaks-
They were trying to move a big glass cube,
There were victims floating in water,
As if they were dead and numbed in pain.
I turned to them as the frog croaks-
A cloak-man gave me the reins of their capillary tube,
And a bottle of venom to feed the catheter,
They crowned me the hood to fit over my brain.
I chuckled and shuddered-
My hands benighted down,
Little bend towards the lord,
And they stripped me off in a sudden spate.
When my body was falling down murdered-
They turned the soil into red from brown,
A few survivors were running in hoard,
Slain frog legs smashed in stampede outside the heaven’s gate.
The script naively exposes the ill-belief section of the society that baselessly assumes religious malpractices like suicide preaching, mass killing in the name of cleaning the earth and similar philosophies. However, it does not point or criticizes any particular corner of the world with any motive; as such practitioners can be found throughout the world. The imagination runs parallel to the concept of a hell and is satirical to the evil-doers of the subject. The prejudices explained over the paragraphs have been touted as heinous and the victim witnessing and narrating the event successfully brings out the reader of such a bitter climate.
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.
Your pink breasts arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.
Your black boobs taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to rape feminism in mean.
Chasing you through the bushes,
When I thought I was playing hide & seek with you-
Running hard and churning blood,
In my naked feet kissing heat in your pursue.
My sun-glasses were black that could not penetrate,
Exaggerated, reflected only my desperation-
Your hot wax actually burned them with pain,
I am still proud enough to save my love that suffered abrasion.
That night you held that lantern to porch illusion-
The dancing flames never betrayed,
And gave indication of your sincerity,
Only that you were more than posh when you forayed.
The shocking news-
Still I am alive!
I managed the antidote of your poison,
In fact you blessed my life.
Are you curious?
I pity on you,
I will tell you, if you can hear,
No need to fume or don’t get furious.
A complex poem with all the ingredients of passion, anxiety, sooth, calmness and craftsmanship that will keep my readers glued and anticipating till the end. Indeed a precious piece from my pen.
Blocos, Bandas, or Escolas!
Not only shows the world to play soccer-
The country that sweats to let the world drive, alas!
One who breeds sweet sweats-
There strives our Harry Potter.
The solitary candy girl sings in the field,
You can hear her in the afternoon-
A black song of motivation that barely covers her guild.
All this and many more,
That gives human skin the bitterness of colour-
They can be ignored driving downn Sao Polo inside a Maybach Saloon.
The same sun, but not the same burn-
Sometimes sipping Caipirinha in the beach resort,
And then while harvesting with a difficult breath, a farmer gives up a life well fought!
I remember the Tropicana Beau from Syndale,
She delivered my order at the welcome pub Dazzle-
It was the smile she was affording that day,
And now she is the jealous infection from the social bay…
I looked at her same contours hesitantly,
And they have been exposed much sharper delightedly-
She appealed me her demystified glory,
Two weeks later she left her job for the clearance money…
I remember her tears washing the dirty streets in the market,
She was refused by every seller for credit-
Those scanty clothes she was affording that day,
And now she prices her perfection in that way…
I looked at her eyes and she believed in me,
And ma editor startled me, “Sir, who is she?”
She gave me her perfect look and the rest did my camera…
We worked hard to frame her saying, “Love You…Rihanna!”
Rihanna is a strong character despite an art of fiction. The countryside girl from the Syndale Valley somewhere near London has made her weakness her biggest armour and becomes the successful cover page girl for the sake of money. But then her world changes suddenly and the world that wanted something else from her is now satisfied and proud of her stardom and pays her the value of her skin. Her efforts to sweat herself and her family had once been rejected but now she looks upon the world with a different vision. Now the world pays her for her looks, her looks that were never so confident before the world camera. She becomes one of the nude cover-page girls but she actually undresses the desire of the cheap world that calls itself fashion. Indeed she is paid for the fashion of her survival. The last line, “We worked hard…” is ironical and leaves us to think with a pause.
Thirty feet tall Madonna, is one of the things-
My ultra-stylish city that grew up,
Rave, raunchy catwalks beneath those chandeliers-
The Toyota drives by the Manhattan Beach, amidst bikini wardrobe.
When I read those Taxi-dance barbettes-
I wish I could lost in their growling gowns,
All my wishes fulfilled one day and flew me down there-
My boasting finance job and some pals were African browns!
It was that ultimate visa down the Fashion Avenue-
Most of their lipstick glosses were supported by Chelsea revenue.
I could not breathe the invisible virus against my immunity,
The enigmatic pleasures that lived inside the skyscraper community-
I had no qualms while cherishing the barbeque restaurants poisoning,
My fascinations without imaginations had no logical reasoning-
Many of us at Saint Clair’s ward#3, NYC, were at once there fugitive-
Now moaning like chickens to be butchered, we are all HIV positive!
Did you know that…
Pop diva Madonna is a gay icon and the gay community has embraced her as a pop culture icon. She was introduced to the gay community while still a teenager. It was her ballet teacher, Christopher Flynn, a gay man, who first told Madonna that she was beautiful. He introduced her to the local gay community of Detroit, Michigan, often taking her to the local gay bars. Flynn encouraged Madonna to walk away from her full scholarship to the University of Michigan and to move to Manhattan.
The disease of AIDS…
Was first uncovered in homosexual men
What happens when your dreams turn into reality? It’s a paradigm that you celebrate, live life to the fullest. There is however, life that exists beyond this celebration, sometimes good and sometimes not so good like you expected. And when it becomes not so good like you expected, you spat with bitterness and associate the term bad. Anything against your wish and will is then bad and one day you might fall into live with this bad. All I can say is that they are individual retrospection.
This is what Manhattan Dreams exactly captures. The first half can successfully open the door of fascinations that a college teenager in search of a lucrative career and living might jump into- “Style, fashion, exuberance, beaches, skyscrapers, stardom and what not!” Everything is colorful about Manhattan, even the way it is spelt and pronounced. A financial job inside a long cherished skyscraper, international friends, restaurants, pubs, smoking, the kind of gay evenings are not only meant for Hollywood films but can happen to someone like you. And then one day, the world economy complains your presence there as a fugitive, you are fired from your job and your world crashes to a clinic or a hospital confirming you HIV positive. What will you do then?
That is what you are getting from the second half of the poem. As if the drama has reached a climax like after the interval in a film. There seems a sudden pause in life from where there leads the road to uncertainty, disappointment and delusion. This is where the poem ends, because this is where the human mind stops thinking often. A never before kind of bitterness cataracts the dreamy visions and the object of your dream becomes an excuse of your current defeat.
Manhattan Dreams is not a criticism of the gay culture. Neither it attempts to de-criminalize the society nor does it pollute the appeal of Manhattan at all. It is the victim’s individual retrospection in the other side of his celebrated life which is no more a celebration now. The stylish Manhattan is both a dream and a reality. It has nothing to do with your personal glory or agony. Depending upon the situation in your life it might serve as your forefront or background.