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Shashank Virkud Apr 2015
Stella told us she was bi.

I stared down at my oysters,
covered in parmesan,
taste like the ***** in Frenchtown.

With my silken tongue,
flicked another from its
shell, let the goo drip
down my lip, and run
up my wrist.
Shashank Virkud Apr 2015
She wants
she wants
she wants
she wants
she wants to know
why I'm spreading
my time
so thin,
why I'm spreading
my mind
so thin.
She wants to know
why I'm sinking
just to swim.

She can take a ride in my car.
She can take a side of my heart.
She can.

She wants to know
why my neck
is so thin,
she want to go
to Jupiter again.
She wants
she wants
she wants
she wants.
Shashank Virkud Jan 2015
I won't back out.
What do you want to do?
With a passion
for the fashions of a time passed,
I've forgotten how to analyze:
what makes me a *****?
I've forgotten why
I'm sleeping alone-
I'm dreaming-
And my dreams
are but mine alone.


I'll rig the smallest ship
and I'll challenge the stars
because the gods live too far away
to deliver me...

when your lips
are the sweetest figs
and I can't see
through the fox-bark mist.

I apologize,
is there any power,
any power behind this?
Shashank Virkud Dec 2014
I'm bashful,
I'm broken-
I'm born to do this-
die like this-
with every twist,
every flourish,
every blister-
are you burning, Amber?
Sore nose with a corkscrew in it-
the holes you bore-
I'm boring.
remaining unnamed
because boys are all different yet none of them stay very long-
for the shame of it-
hot shame, burning amber-
are you burning, Amber?
oh, if it wasn't for the shame of it!
Shashank Virkud Nov 2014
Dismissive and incredulous,
could something be so ridiculous?

Solitary, eight armed octopus.
I look at you with bulging eyes-
nothing stranger could exist.
I sulk back into the abyss.
Shashank Virkud Oct 2014
When will I be able to live my life
without having to sleep through half of it?

Will my stomach
ever stop aching?

Why is my skin

Which part
of my soul dies
when I check my gut,
stick a skewer through my brain,
pinch a nerve in my neck
until it pops;
what gets left behind
when I make a compromise?
Shashank Virkud Oct 2014
crept up on me
in the beginning,
in a slithering,
sordid sort
of way.
the opening,
the closing doors kept
and left me
porous woodwork,
ashen, decrepit;
the walls that wept
dust mites
in the absence of
a keeper,
in the absence
of light.

What a wicked way,
what a thing to say

to a skeleton in his grave,
rattling sporadically,
stench of love decayed.

Gracefully laid down,
head full of gray clouds,
reserving respect
for all those dead sounds,
keeping kindness
for my pallid hounds.
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