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 May 2016 Kastoori Barua
Lora Lee
Sometimes
the burning
is so powerful
that I
might as
well be
tied to a stake
like the pagan
wise-women of yore
mistaken for witches
no dousing
with gasoline
necessary
for the inside
is already so
slick with
simmering
flammability
combustable
liquids
that trickle
down my thighs
into the earth
and create dark steam
that turns into light
as its luscious
vapor rising
from my being
Soon I will
simply evaporate
and become
atmospheric
ether floating
up towards
stars
and raining
love down
into the
tender receptacle
of your
being
So many sizzling emotions :)
I have been
nothing before
and while I prefer
to be something
to you
zero
is a perfect circle
the beginning
the end
one seamless strand
made whole
Demons, demons everywhere.
They touch my skin and smell my hair.

Cold, cold eyes.
Floating faceless beings in disguise.

Deadly, deadly claws.
Scratching the mind, waiting for an applause.

Throat, throat is sore.
Painted in blue, can’t take it anymore.

Tears, tears so very clear.
Face is bathed in agony and fear.

Pills, pills to swallow.
The soul passed out, the body is hollow.

Please, please go away.
Come again another day.
It comes now without
preamble or announcement,
On the ending of the poignant
symphonic overture,
Or, the melodramatic moments,
of a romantic drama on TV.
A sunrise or sunset can do it.
A story retold with child innocence
recounted by one of my grandsons,
can bring me to my emotional knees.
My son calls it the result of my brain
operation a few years ago,
This emotional tearing up,
of my excess humanity.

I like to think it is a reward of sorts,
a blessing of age and well-earned maturity.
Sensing the end of the long traveled road,
gives my humanity, a focused clarity.
Her body was wrapped
in the finest Indian silk,
as any precious gift would be,
exquisitely sensual to his touch.

She trembled as his hands
opened and explored layer
by layer the sari her mother
had given her that morning.

Their kisses were wet and deep,
His breathing was as labored
as her's.

It was their wedding day
and first night together.
They were as yet children,
lost in the passions of first love.
Their shared rapture all consuming,
Soon, two would be forever as one.
In an open-air flower market,
it happened in an instant,
with one solitary scent,
years unraveled and
I was that kid again.

One AM on a school night,
vague street light through
my window, painting
shadowed crosses on
the wall and ceiling.
Even in the depths of night,
a stifling ninety degrees,
our home no air conditioning.
Slight temperate breeze through
open window conveyed
exotic sweet Camellia perfume,
from two large flowering plants,
standing sentry out there.

Too hot to sleep, turning and tossing
on a sweat-damp sheet,
I'd conjure and dreamed of far away
Pacific isles, of cool sea surf and sandy beach,
palm branches sway in fresh, clean breeze,
robust with the soothing fragrance
of thousands of tropical blooms,
Like those standing guard
outside my window screen.

Heat-induced, half sleep,
Horizon Lust loudly calling me.
A few years later I answered that call,
and it was all that I had envisioned it
would be.
With his curly ginger hair, wild like a lions mane,
he just have to give you one look before you go insane.
He knows he is charming and he knows it so well,
that he finds joy in casting this inescapable spell.

His eyes are like the abyss: dark, cold and deep.
They consume the soul, make your mind go to sleep.
He has damaged you already and you think he is your remedy.
If you could just open your eyes and see his true identity.

With a longing for love and hoping it would float,
you went right in his trap to get him: the antidote.
But instead he fed you up with toxic dreams and lies.
Because this is what he is: poison in disguise.
The music is blasting out loud.
You can feel the bass diving into your body.
Sweating mortals, creating chaos in a crowd.
It’s here where nobody becomes somebody.

Fragile glass filled with colors of a rainbow.
The liquid’s job is to make you dizzy.
Turning strangers into people, you now know.
It’s here where lazy meets busy.

Wanting a good time but is being oddly exposed.
Intrusive questions, stirring up the tension.
Asking polite for the door to remain closed.
It’s here where admiration turns into obsession.

Light is out, except for the lighter’s flame.
Shattered bottles and broken high heels.
Skin meets ground, leading to tomorrow’s pain.
It’s here where your alter ego is truly revealed.
I am not the party type at all. I will always prefer staying home surrounded by nothing but silence.
the cuckoo still sings
over the traffic smoke,
children still carve
forts by the sea,

gulmohars still bloom
over the widening road,

you could still stir early,
jog through frozen silences,
travel for an hour, still
bathe under a waterfall,

walk up a ruined hill fort,
watch the falling of meteors,

you could still save yourself,  
here in this decay and filth,
you could dig up a little earth,
and ply a little ***** on it,

feed it like a little child,  
and make a tree out of it...
Gulmohar - A tree that blooms orange flowers in summer.
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