"cusped" poems
Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?
Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,
fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like
those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.
I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
You gave in to my courtship,
I cusped your face in my hands,
That was when we met in Amritsar,
I had clutched your cute fingers,
Nervous you seemed while smiling.
I can never forget that luckiest day,
Whatever anybody might bray,
Your eyes are truthful darling love,
I am very thankful to the dove,
Thankful to the dove of love.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
For each and every other,
There's something to be said.
There’s something to be said for –
The security guards
With coke nails.
There something to be said for –
The alcoholics
That moonlight as bartenders.
There’s something to be said for –
The huddled mother,
Cradled child and cusped copper.
There’s something to said for –
The recluse with word,
Broken atop a glass of wine.
For each and every other,
There’s something to be said,
But one knows not another word.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Sumer, the people of ancient Mesopotamia.
Known to us as nascent humanity;
Spreading across the world quickly,
Like news of a calamity.
They existed thousands of years ago,
A civilisation truly gifted,
Knowledge of whom many of us forgo.
They were but one shade in a kaleidoscope of human presence.
Kings of the Fertile Crescent –
Establishing empires or mastering commerce,
Starting fires or learning to converse.
Mankind in its infancy,
A bloom of activity and artistry.
In our attempts at deciphering our history,
We turn to the relics of their poetry,
Discoveries that are a historian’s ultimate victory.
‘The love song of Shu-Sin’ –
The world’s oldest, known reference to love.
Written thousands of years ago,
Possibly older than we do know.
It is a rite of marriage, a recital;
In it lies a passage, one that needs a revival.
It is about a vow that we have now twisted,
An exquisite message that leaves one’s spirit lifted.
The bride promises the following to the groom;
To act as a refuge when all that seems to loom is doom and gloom.
To caress, love, and soothe.
To savour beauty and intimacy,
To be like honey, sweet and smooth.
The king - a man who was thought divine,
A man whose life was valued more than yours or mine,
A man who could eternally wine and dine –
That man was still no sultan to love.
His heart was still in the palms of his beloved,
Their naked frames intertwining, arched and cusped.
His hold on her is not one of force,
Nor a promise of power,
But rather earned in due course,
Like the development of a beautiful flower.
I grieve beyond words when I think
Of how love, nowadays, is on the brink.
The glue that holds life itself together,
Discarded by many, like an ex’s letter.
I look at the eyes of people I’d love to be with,
And in their expression, I discover a graveyard of sad memories.
Scars that feel indelible, past histories -
Souls that look like war-torn territories.
I look at my own eyes in the mirror,
And see a starving spirit, growing thinner.
I see a window for restoration, becoming slimmer.
Sometimes I hopefully wonder – is there a glimmer?
Is there another hungry apparition,
On a desperate search for heavenly admission?
I seem to have forgotten how to love,
And do not know how to rid myself of this condition.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:11 AM UTC
I know the world has only space
for a woman and her heart, her ******* emblazoned in the trees,
her depths in voluminous books – let only the saltine water
touch her brindled body atilt amongst the lilies in the silver dawn
and that her cusped hands demand a softer hue of love whereas
the salacious wind continues its grasp championing things both fragile
and sturdy: the world slides in the coloured curve of a woman
and the men dare too, follow the road where they meet first with
death sitting still with the roses like a splendid fragrance stilled in the mind
leading you to a garden which thorns are ensconced
in a smoothness that sings salutations to love – as I remain to be
nose-deep sheath after sheath, **** after **** stalking the
perfume of the world a woman owns.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
Spinning around
the revolting door.
Floated pauper
casting ashore.
Rainbow shadows
on fields of ****
Drowned delusion
and fleets of drop.
Highway hymns
held on leaves.
forgotten smiles
for haloed thieves.
Cusped cup
over escaping steams.
Misty morning.
Disappearing dreams.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
I don't care
About all the other jewels you hold in cusped hands,
You make me feel as valuable as each and every one of them.
I want to adorn your skin, just to leave a subtle hint
To make you feel beautiful with the way I complement,
Throwing compliments to your feet, on my knees
Begging you, please, just one
Chance to release these feelings.
A day of your love. A second of your touch,
I just want to say that I've had the experience.
I crave your kiss, I crave your tongue.
Your body is where my fingers long to run,
Across every flawless inch of skin
Every rise, every dip
Let me burn you with fingertips
And scorching lips,
Whispering promises of rhythmic hips.
I just want one day.
One measly minute.
One tiny, insignificant
Miniscule second;
To taste your heaven.
To etch every detail
Into my brainstem.
-SLuR
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
I'm beating myself up today with regret
I woke up suddenly realizing that I never noticed
In the moments I had and the time I spent with her
I never noticed her shirt
I never noticed the way it clung to her like sad sultry poem
Or the way it slipped off her arms like cold raindrops
And the way it cusped to her neck as I wish I could
During the time that I spent crying to her
And speaking to her soul and feeling her eyes
Praying that the time between us wouldn't end
I let that giant piece of her slip right through my mind and my fingers
I never noticed that shirt she wore on that day in that moment of time
And now I will never see it the way it needed to be seen like it did then
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
I want shut eye
And to shut off
Making it worth the wait
Laying in the double duvet
There will be nothing done today
- starting from the early AM
Of course when
In apathetic stance
Which sounds so concerned
I asked and answered,
So repulsed and sure
And then again in collaboration
So what?
If there is itch tangle or sore
Nothing lasting or making sense because of it, and then wishing off to shut
Asking and then answering again
So what.
Given your hands in the benevolent shadows gloom
I grasped the deep, and true colors bloom
In fire-lit hindsight
The ways that bodies exhausted temporal efforts
Through and over
Christmas warmth and holidays alike
Wishing for repetitive cuts
Lines thick and robust
Yet to bend above the high bar
Living in exorbitant envy and simultaneous lust
I wished for words to keep a man up
As Edgar Allen Poe to return
And Onto nightmares haunt
And in profuse soliloquy I discussed
Addressed and caressed the audience and applauded with further praise and *** laude the asked answer of so what.
Carefully to plot
With a protractor and fingers
Then put - in holes all around problems and solutions-
No hole without end instead whole in my hands cusped
I repeat my concern and eternal quest of lines so crossed -
In-absolute and aloof and lost
Returned the question of so what?
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ****** something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
1 Method:
Witness nothing but the body
hurtling at best, if not dilapidated.
Cusped in space, never held.
Behead the music,
if not the conductor.
It will happen when everything has
expired in the threshing.
Wring me pure, make me delicate,
chain me in the wrongness.
Embody this figurine pierce it with stem
break it gossamer as petals imperiled ad infinitum
sleek as a metaphor rising from rinsed perfume.
2 Chance Operation:
Say when she caresses / this mired setting:
it is of preparation.
Seize this mean when preparatory.
Turn you as inside-out cleared from veiling.
In a vitrine you wish to be freed from,
examined, never granted meaning;
Mundane the discovery.
A throb of fever gone from tepid bath
walking into space, abled.
Acute blunder is study, wash me with theory.
Sullen is the word for it, entitled to acute error.
Say when it ceases,
tranquilized. Never waking up, fastens to
3 Dreamwork:
Always still is the heart.
I envy the water midstream. Fingers partition
when infiltration is sure of. A conscious removal
merits the continual of lobotomies.
Augur this dim presence, make it raw again
infallibly, make it my body. Forge my skin out of
and listen to it. Feel the drone of this machine
making space less tolerable. This begins
an end, but of what pursuit is this here
always a vision Blinded by definition
away from here?
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Rumbling thunders but wounded voices were more distinctly heard… Pouring wonders for my eyes flutter more than that beautiful bird….
Innocence blinded me to see hidden malice…Building Avenues for hope is the only solace… Well, this hope also doesn’t hold any promise!!
All that’s Lurking my mind uninformed about the time… Life isn’t a meritocracy of counting days it has got meaning even if there is no joy with the loved ones all uncertain in its own ways !…..
Like a cusped dandelion spores are blown… I choose to stay away for it’s okay to feel alone rather to be felt thrown….though I mourn and mourn…
Time is passing, days are crawling…. Life is moving… But the sand in the hour glass isn’t falling…
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 5:52 AM UTC
The wit just drips off your words
But I'm not really there
My palms are wet and cusped and filled with the liquid formation of what I'm given
Advice I grip onto and try to let absorb into me
Try to taste it, to feel it, to see it
Trying to know if it applies
Something that lets me know that there is direction to this life
Signs and signals I've been purposefully missing for so long
Avoiding all the warning signs that leave me exhausted beyond amount
Maybe they're speaking to me
Desperation is all my body language has became at times like these
Desperate for the period at the end in the midst of all the question marks I don't have enough words or connecting brain signals to give adequate responses to
Long run and ever going
An object in motion will stay in motion until stopped
But all my tactics to work around things have succeeded until all the sudden everything meets in a forced crash
It always meets somewhere and when it does I'm left in the rubble and aftermath
Trying to sort through all of the connecting parts left unconnected that I could have kept together if only I had
But I never do
It all crumbles and compacts until more things are adding up that I keep apart until they eventually meet
And they're all sharp
Biting and unavoidable
But I don't stop
Focusing all of my attention on sawing one down instead of stopping the making of others but because instant gratification has always been my favorite forte
I've only ever succeeded in getting nowhere but lost
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC