And,  I smiled at my own nakedness.
Pouring down my thighs,
With the *****,
I stood stark ****.
Unbounded of the brassieres
And support of the *******,
It was a plain freedom.
But, I.
I felt the air quench horror down.
The tingling of the copulation
And, its sweaty remnants glued the ***** soil,
Onto my tender body,
While crouched further into the ground.


It was very dark.
And, two limelight.
I could see me in one.
Bare.
Shaved
And dripping.

And, in the other,

A he,
Was not there.
Two dozen men stood
In front of me.

All those acquaintances it seemed like
The new age resultant of a dozen
Photoshop-ed faces reflecting the crimson of  
Familiar intimacies of all the swallowed *****,
It seemed as if.
Well, I could recognise all of them.
I had slept with each, once upon.


The beautiful ***, the sneering *******,
The-neourotic-awesome one, the pro-marriage one,
The sweet one, the afraid one, the older one,
The browny,
The passionately wild and genuine one,
The drugged one,
The fat ****
And the **** guy.
All in front of me.
While I was nubile,
Begging in clasped hands,
A tear of joy.
Of thankfulness.
Of a heavy thankfulness.
For having worshipped my innards
My ejaculations, perpetually wet vaginal facades
And escapades.

For the li'lest that time they did.

But, then.

Yes.

Ya, I was grateful,
I was simply grateful
For having been objectified.

For having been indebted to those zillion
Dissolved and
Disposed tissues in their garbage bins
That was blotched with my vaginal smear, ***** and mucous.

Time never felt necessary
A romantic forgetfulness!
For love had,
Taught me co-existence.
And only,
Co-existence.
Which, would come to use only if I'm shipwrecked, alone.


I stood up.
Yes, I stood UP ON MY LEGS.
My ******* panted off
the last bit of sweat,

The wind was pleasant,
But strong.

I couldn't feel the cold.
My fingers Icy cold I wrapped against the warm elbows,
And nails,
Gushing with an ablaze of bloodiest red of
A life so dead white.

And, the sweat had disappeared.

The ***** too.


I was drought, clean.

I was done.

A heavy tornado of misandry
Came buy,
And I jumped in.

And howled with the wind.


Loud, clear.
And, red.

And, howled the world to howl with me.

For the celestial lesions up above,
to buy my rage.


Because the effervescent stake was
Too holy a scent
For my scanty dermis.

I Howled,
Through my rusted lance
And swamped hips,
Too dry.

To Spike my cramps
And howl into my knee-caps a full blow of pure kush for the empty cavities.

Ha ha.

Entrap the last ounce of warmth
Of a paranoid agony.

And howl the misandry.

Around. And around.
And around.

Around.


Till it comes back,
Around n round n round.
N round.



Misandry, my toska.
My final Toska.

Sleeping

Lullabies of thunder and gore
On a wet night's tremors at my mother's coastal shore
I heard the hum of your pitch dark delight,
Roaring with wraith o'er the lagoon
Raging tides and wreaths lo-where shroom.  

That's when I heard you bouncing off the shadows.

Another folly night in the jungles of board and milky turns of rocks, I saw you whistle past the bamboo blades.

But it was on the terrace of my paternal home that I saw the insignificantly significant red fireflies on a pitch dark night embraced in palms,
I felt your touch by mangroves and pines.

You come again to lull me to slumber
Thundering bolts refrain from shallow rompers.

Take me with your silent coos and moos.
Light my dirge and moan for moons.

Let's overthrow the albatross and harrow the silvesteros.
Send my greetings to the land of doon.
I am en route, already my beau

A hand that was ****** by the untouchedness of her life.
A hand that had just too many crevices,
Because she never opened them.
She was always seen with clenched palms in the streets.
She sat in the dimmest corner, every day joining the dark a little more.
Her hands were moist, tender and almost a liquid,
With the years of the sweat that had finally copulated with the blood, flesh and the phalanges in her palms.

She really,
Never opened them!

She was born with a fist.
She never did any work with her hands.
She choose to be one of the sisters of the fist.
Practised by the moonshine to
Spread a tad bit more pleasure.

Or despair.
Or pitch dark moans of the holy communions.

She walked with the drunken sweaty silhouettes of the watchmen at night.

They never knew her by body.
They knew her as the torching darkness that gorged the light on their paths
In  voluptuous silhouettes.

She curled next to them on their shabby beds through the night.
They never knew the stranger strangles of the nightmares they had …
Every night.

To them, dreams did not exist.

For all she did was to appear in them as a rage or vendetta,

Amidst a chore in the daylight.
They vent it all on the shiny awls to ******* the green meadows.
And then, go back to sleep,

To be in the shinier brace of an dismembering nightmare,
She copulated evermore.

They never knew they were pregnant with her potent ejaculations inside. Well, every man is if you ask me,
one of the ...
daughters of the Sisters of the Fist.

They never woke up to her.
They never found her on their bed.
Their streets.
Or on the *****-dried poles in their taverns.

But she always accompanied them.

Perhaps in the sudden whiff of a fragrant **** that lingered in their sweaty cribs in the morning.
Or in the whiff of the ***** from over their shoulders,
When they wrote a plagiarised letter to their new sweethearts.


No.


She appeared only when their nightmares resurfaced. In the broad daylight, between the walls, breathing through the claustrophobic walls that are one within her.

Whenever they shed the blood of another,
A burp of yesterday’s nightmare,
She appeared.

And faded.

But dissolved.

Sisters of the Fist are undying,
The daughters born to the dark,

Are the fists of the dark.
Since the beginning of mankind.

Till the end of another race.
To be the purpose.

To impregnate the bittersweet elixir of Evil,
To every living soul called a man.

If waking life is a death noose at the neck of a gurgling volcano,
then you might as well close your eyes and enjoy the evil delicacies that the sisters of the Fist will consume into you.
Yes, consume into you …

Till the day you die,

And become one among them.

On the day after your death.