Lucia, dreams of.

We are new to each other,
Of each other’s scents we know nothing real.
We speak pleasantries and smile polite,
Send the right kind of texts and
Sink back to silence.

Once, you took longer than it would take
To stare at my feet. And when
Your own caught my eye, I noticed
They were well formed and long.
I like the vacant colour of your eye.

At night, I meditate you:
What I can’t turn to song
I make the hours longer with timely breaks
And in my reverie you caress my back
As I draw to press in alternate takes.

You are one I must have, no matter
How unlikely it to you may seem.
To free your bosom and to crush it
To your open gasp, to drink deep into potions
Your lust may freely give,

To be lost among your thighs,
To be entangled by your endless legs,
And to bite that flesh that
To me as yet is hidden as you moan,
Is to caste aside sobriety; and to live.

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Prajapathi, bidding farewell.

Your mouth – in hesitant silence –
Speaks to me, as your lips twitch,
As your eyes watch. Your breath shifts
Your taut bosom, as you hold in check
What I know you feel.

You tell me, with carefully chosen words
You have practiced so well for years,
That I must go and come back in safety,
For your friendship will await me.
I harden as I watch you stand there for me to go.

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Endima, of the last fuck.

Truth be told,
The last time we got together to fuck,
I had already started moving away.
You had already set the scene with a three day chat,
And, for me, there was no other conceivable way
But to fall in with your scheme; and as I knew
There was still an ember left within.

That weekend was long, and was marred by omens.
The air conditioning went bust, and the heatwave
Made life on bed too sweaty than it must be.
We pulled, and pushed; we rammed it hard,
And you were gasping new ways to a world of ecstasy,
But, I knew that this was all that I wanted to have.

Later, you saw me sink into a valley of moods
And did your best to bring me back to your page,
Even when I had come repeatedly in your mouth
And the stiffness had died,
You kept on pulling and pushing the skin with lust
That, it tore simply because you over-tried.

That’s the last I had you, taking you deep,
And though I, in fantasies of my own,
Have since fucked your bones to hell,
You, I will never have again, for that spell
Which counted while it ran is now a moment in the past
That the present can’t sell.

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Prajapathi, of her silence

Whenever I bring up the topic of
Romance on your side,
You sink into silence. Or you sidestep like
A Center nestling the ball for the national team,
Running for a goal in the safety of silence.
You bypass my verbal traps,
And you seek the sanctuary of mundane trash.

You are someone I would only have
In the silence of a cave.
You, whom I would breathe in, when you
Lay down breathing out; you, whose
Unknown depths that strive to keep the cold fires concealed,
Would be used to burn my desire
Till its crust would crumble off.

Our mating would be quick,
Penetration,without frills.
In that intense drive will be enough love,
Enough longing for eternity.

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Raadha, an early encounter

The juices that wet the bilabials of her vulva
Brings her to life, sets me on fire.
As water nourishes the waiting earth,
I hunger after the wetness
As erection permits me to bend.

Her eye are closed, and her moanful rhythm
Calls to attention all lust
That assembles in each atom.
Her fingers of one hand crouch to a fist,
And the other holds firm my hair, in zest.

Raadha, I have had you, against all odds.
The tip of this hole that I burrow into
Is as far as the dreams of the world would get.
Tonight, I enter deep into you,
And you have made it my right.

The father that looked after you died, Raadha.
And now you are alone and you make
The choices that women must make.
Coyly you have let me in, against all your father’s teaching
And you have made me your master, spreading it out for me to have.

So, my lips rustling the side of your neck,
My weight pinning you down,
My hands possessive of the abundant flesh of your boobs,
I enter you, a heavy sodden root deep into earth,
As I release myself in you, making you mine.

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Rush, her feet

I, who have taken you all,
Today, I turn to your well-formed
Feet. As you
Stroke my chest,
Toes press my nipples,
Trace patterns down my body,
As you caress my waist, kick my member
Out of play.

Your feet I’m in love with,
I kiss the soles with much care.
Trace my tongue along its length,
Softly bite it here, now there.
Kiss each inch of desirous flesh,
Watch you wince, watch you close eyes, and
Suck each toe, suck in between,
Your gasps, my Promised Land.

You ask me, are they pretty,
And I tell them, they are soft and supple.
Are they like my woman’s when I suck them?
I say, no, I enjoyed hers more.
Parting your lips, with a small gift of smile,
You push one toe deep into my mouth.
The other foot you slide down me,
Down my chest to my crotch, and
You play with my tip; you say, I want some more.

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Jeevana, while with the fish-seller

In the market square
In an unfamiliar day on an
Hour not usual for either of us,

As I sat with the vendor of
Dried fish, talking politics,
As I turned my head for a moment’s space,

There, you walked by us,
Stopped for a minute, with time enough
Just to say a Hi.

Your eyes met mine, Jeevana,
And in your eyes I saw the need to say more.
Your lips tightened, as if in a hurried kiss,

And what my face betrayed, Jeevana,
I do not know. Then, you reluctantly moved on.
Turned around and moved on, as you had to go.

So, I turned back to the vendor of fish,
And continued on the subject of politics.
But, you woman whose warmth I know, of you I wanted more.

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Raadha, having tea with

The urge is too real, Raadha,
To tell the world who you are —
To admit to you that it aches inside not to
Take you, to rip your clothes,
To meet your yearning eyes with mine and to
Slide it deep inside. And to push it an inch more,
To inhale your sigh.

While we sit taking our sugared tea,
The silences intervening.
Your eyes – there is a tension which I
Think is the half-hearted call of the
Desired, still wavering.

But, only if I could tell you,
That the only tea I need is brewed in you,
That is need not be sugared, that it
Need not be as thick as this: that
There’s only one plunge I have in mind

As we make the smallest talk
On irrelevancies and topics that
This tension cannot bear.

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Jeevana, before a long break

This, Jeeva, will be our last day
For an entire month and a half,
For your lover returns from the shore
Herding back his fat grown cattle and staff.

Lie back for me, Jeeva, like a corn flower
And let all inhibitions take flight,
For the evening still is young, the sun recedes,
And there are hours to go before the night.

The room tantalizes in your fragrance,
Your being illuminates the corners cold,
As birds faraway take to playful wings,
Let me loose myself on you, be brave and bold.

In the kitchenette the kettle issues its wheeze
And you stir gently on my finger as you rock,
Your eyes are fixed at the approaching clouds
And my key, as its oiled, turns on the lock.

Moan, soft Jeeva, moan with the kettle on the side,
For that holy water that wets my hand
Is the very water from which all life came,
That led men into battle, in search of Promised Land.

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Raadha, her grief

You are from my class:
Your grandmother hauled sand on the beach
My father’s uncle massaged foreign-skinned women
And touched his groin with the free hand.
Your father broke away from the Folk,
He saved education and favours
And made enough money to make a life,
And wedded the class he had not,
When he bedded your mother that night.

What slid through the wet walls of your mother
Is the emancipated shaft of a low class,
Made big by money and status. The boy
Whose father plucked and threw the
Coconuts down from the crowned trees
Fed on your mother’s classed coconuts,
Making her come – impregnating her with new seed.

And today, three decades and two children later,
He goes to the cemetery on VIP shoulders.
You are in your funeral clothing and
Your grief has made you distraught and tired
That it adds to your voluptuousness
Making me want you more and more.
You give me orders to run errands as
The class status your father had made your birthright
Has taught you to do.

You, the grand daughter of a sand hauler of
My village, my class —
Very soon I will take you to the
Coldness of the storeroom where
One by one the guises you have been trained to take for granted
Must be slowly shunned —
Where the fragrance of your skin,
Anointed by powders too real for softness
Should be sucked off your golden skin.
Where, in the emptiness of a reverberating hollow,
Dumbed and dazed by the shock of an unfamiliar warmness,
You must be entered and fucked long, out and in.

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