boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

Mine is a generation of taboo.
We are tribal tattoos and cheap motel room honeymoons.
We are slander,
and slang,
and brittle teeth.
We are born-agains and suicides.
We are podium preachers and cracked-pavement prayers.
We are melted plastic and oxidized metal-
sometimes we gleam with the Liberty Green of corroded copper,
sometimes we crumble with rust and stain calloused hands.
We are the last stand of Art.
We are the manifestations of forbidden bloodlines
and insanity.
We are just as much our mothers
as we are our fathers,
and we are everything that they are not.

We are stigmata.
We are red paint on white canvas.
We are fast food coffee.

We were born to the sweet smell of formaldehyde
in rooms dressed in florescent white
that share plumbing with the morgues
beneath the linoleum floors.
We are the mix of ***** and innocence that lingers
in the kiss of a dimly lit basement.
We show and we tell but always only for the right price,
the wrong reasons,
or the promise of an exchange equaling to the feeling that
this is a mistake.
We are rosary beads counted between gnarled knuckles
and dragged across smooth palms that long
to sweep tear salt from flushed cheeks.

We are Heaven's lonely singles.

We are skin stretched out too thin over skeletons.
We are the complexities that machines can't calculate
much less imitate.
We are the futile cries that once tried to keep towers from falling
when the sky came crashing down.
We are the pardoned and the withered.
We are the hardened faces of those that have
worked too long
and been loved too little.
We have been told that the safest place for your soul
is in the hole of your chest,
but only if it's reinforced by
four inches of concrete and steel,
and strapped tight with a Kevlar vest,
because they said people,
at best,
are manslaughter.

But we have never been great listeners either;
when we were growing up
we pressed our hands to hot stoves
even though our mothers said not to,
because we couldn't just be told what it was to burn
we had to feel it for ourselves.
So every now and then we will crack open
our rib cages in the hopes that someone will come,
light a fire,
and decide to stay.

We hopelessly spray paint things like wings
On deserted brick buildings
So that, at the very lest, we can feed the
Hollow-eyed passerby the belief
That these streets still have guardians,
Even when we, ourselves,
Abandoned such ideologies in
backroad dumpsters
along with our deities’ infidelities.
  
We are the period at the end of the sentence.
(Or maybe we are the ellipses...)
We have redefined the American family
and proven that even Christianity knows how to hate.
We were raised by sixty-percent divorce rates,
yet we still believe that we are soul mates.
We are the jokers of the deck:
either smiling fools or wild cards.
We are cocked heads with smoke billowing from throats
coated with blisters and cough syrup.
We are back alley scavengers crawling on all fours.
We are the era of the Auto-Tuned voice,
proof that with a pretty enough face anyone can sing.
We are foggy mirrors with smiles drawn on them
by print-less fingertips.
We slip up the thighs of our lovers
and swirl down the drains of sinks with chipped paint.

We are the hearts in your hands-
Crush us into powder and brush us across your face like Indian war paint,
Give us up to the sky so that we can be revived by lightning,
Dance to the rhythm that we beat,
Squeeze us and watch as we seep through the cracks of your fist,
Conceal us in your pocket and only ever speak to us in a whisper,
Or,
with all your natural voice,
sing to us
songs about thunderstorms
to wet the dusty desert dirt around our rooted toes
in the hopes that we will blossom in the most vivid colors.

Just do something with us.

Don't sacrifice us to the tops of lost bookshelves
to collect dust
or rust in the rain with everything you once loved
but grew too old for.

no words will give justice
to these emotions that howl over me
it's doubtful how you miss
this love that cries for you to see

i'll shower you with flowers
and i'll kiss away the pain
i'll hold you when fear towers
and i'll break off every chain

it won't always be smooth sailing
i know honeymoons don't last
but know my love is never failing
with you, selfishness is of the past

i realize you're in a trance
of that girl who loves you so
but if you'd only give me a glance
i will take away all your sorrow

words left unspoken
feelings left unsaid
before you i was unbroken
but now for you i've bled

I saw her on the side of the road
Her thumb was scrapping the sky
I couldn't believe what I was seeing
She was standing where love goes to die

I asked, "Where you headed hon?"
She just smiled and climbed on in
I put my love life back into gear
But she was just lookin' for sin

"This is as far as my heart will go"
She made it clear to me
"I just like the honeymoon
And that's all it's gonna be"

She was ready to double-down on love
Even though she had no idea what came next
It didn't matter if she won or lost
Her heart was used to writing that check

I was maybe just the next ace
But gambling was her life
She just liked the excitment
She didn't care if she became my wife

This is as far as her heart will go
She made it clear to me
She just likes honeymoons
A beauty queen won't settle down for free

For a moment I thought I saw it
She was telling me she's been hurt before
Just when I thought she might settle down
She started looking at the door

This is as far as her heart will go
Just to the next stop
She'll ride with you for a while
But soon you'll be alone on that blacktop

I want to put my hands in your pockets

To feel the muscles in your thighs

And it makes me want to wear you like a crown

Until the weight of you doubles my back into tantric

And forces out of us the sounds

Of open windowed honeymoons

And shameful moans

Slipping through the jail of my fingers over your mouth

And it’s only shameful this time

Because we are outside

Please if you could

Keep the ***** talk going until

We’ve soiled the blood-money to sopping

In the imaginary world of the things you make me say

Guilty started once you took your coat off

We’ve shed this skin to sin

And now I’m just lightning

Stabbing at your thunder

What’s your name again?

You can make it up

I will shout anything you want me to

Into the darkness of wherever

I am open to anything

Promise

You don’t have to feel bad in the morning

I can pretend we never met in public

It’s not like I can take you dancing

I have two left feet

I won’t buy you drinks

You wouldn’t take them anyway

I will even look the other way

When some other guy dishes out

His disaster for you to break your bones in

He doesn’t mean anything anyway

Just know

I am probably sleeping alone if you’re not here

But I won’t always be thinking about you

Title-out of place- by meself.   A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games. Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange. Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,

I had written you a love poem
maybe two or twelve
before I ever met you
but it's hard to tell

I wrote you ten or seventeen
while we were in our throes
I wrote about a handful more
before I met my close

Then wedding bells
Then honeymoons
I wrote a few for her

I passed them off
originals
her own down to the word

I might have been successful
she never cast a doubt
but I never believed
I ever left you out

I deserted from the paradise to explore the universe
Because God made me excellent but also just diverse
I wanted to be considered at length while I was terse
With visions to explore horizons to be more transverse

I came across a sand dunes with its real musical tunes
Then I saw beauty with very many galaxies and moons
Love came down to me like drizzling rain in monsoons
A fairy in her golden dress came to me for honeymoons

Beam of light struck to complete the pursuit of my soul
A glowing beauty touched my heart as my ultimate goal
Sentiments started moving from part to part ,pole to pole
Love reinvigorated celebrated in shape of love as a whole

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

FRENCH KISS
Such buttery lips
Sweet cream-silks, wrapping our tongues,
Je patisserie.

Le VALENTINE
Red rose and sweet prose
Cyrano DeBergerac's
Moonlit balconies.

DESIRE
Burning in goose flesh
Yearnings with caldera-thirst
Your kiss is like rain.

DEBONAIR
Dean in gabled suits
Eloquent body, jazz-smooth
Sweeps her off her feet.

METEOR SHOWER
Friday night space lights
As we caress the hours
Streaks across the sky

ORIGAMI
The creases of us:
Tales of dragons and white ships
Neatly folded sheets.

VEGAS WEDDING
Romance thru sun roofs
"Hallelujah" honeymoons
Marriage number two.

BON VOYAGE
Like wide sails that cup
The high winds of this marriage
I'm at Love's mercy.

NAPE
*Warm whispers my lips
Down smooth meadows of your neck,
Sweet familiar bed.

Title-out of place- by meself.   A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games.
Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange.
Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,

The man with a banana in each hand.
The elderly twin women with greying hair and stoic faces.
“Simon, Simon. Simon’s a ****.”
The man with the piercing blue eyes, loose tie, and nervous glances,
Hiding in the collar of his wool coat.
The woman with short blonde hair sitting halfway on a stool,
Dunking her bagel into a cup of coffee.
A small French boy begging his father for attention.
A French father absorbed in the screen of his smartphone.

Hundreds of faces and averted glances.
I’ve fallen in love with dozens of strangers,
Embarking on their dream journeys,
Their honeymoons, and simple business trips.
I don’t know where they are going,
And I will forget them by the morning.