I will be yours

I will be yours only if
you puncture my iris with the needle of a drawing pin.
I will sing to you only if
you can further shred the layers on my skin.
I will dance with you only if
you later tear away my veins.
So come let’s sing, and dance, and make love,
like we’ve never done before.
I will soar like a spirit
and blissfully shimmer the laughter of the light.

I could die a million-million deaths!

I could die a million-million deaths!
But pray I make it through this life.
Virginia and Vincent, river and starry night,
If only sanity didn’t make us insane.
Ancy and Mudasir, pebble and air,
If only we could love yet again.
We tread around like wraiths,
Conquering death and humming our light.

Break up

Like gooey semen flowing through the mouth of a hairy anus, I would like to spew you out from the inner folds of my memory. And yet, due to its viscosity, it sticks and swims around, before I’m aware of it.
The memories, vile and sulphurous, the lies, abject and camouflaged, and the deceit, deep and murderous.
Their rustiness corrodes the innards of my chest, and the tangible pain beats its own life. That nail lodged in my chest makes me want to wrench it out.
Like Prometheus, I sense the creature gnawing at my entrails, tearing my live nerves, only to begin all over again.

Each morn I howl in rage and get up with a cataclysmic shudder.
And the ordinariness of this everydayness, the quantum of sleep absorbed, yet draining.
The night that rapes me of every yesterday. The dreams that unleash the insanity of meaning. The wakefulness that begins in sediments of a life, now broken. The present bereft of its immediate future.

The tiles against my skin affirm a life within.
Swallowing double-edged blades invigorates the unwilling will.
The redness of blood and the wonder of life.
The nudity of the self and the absurdity of everything.
The experience of death and the fullness of the void.
The inability to comprehend and the futility of the word.
The magnanimity in pain and the will to live.