Ru, 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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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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Radha, her father’s demise

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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Prajapathi, her navel (II)

Prajapathi, warm goddess,
On the bed forbidden to me by your
Fruitless marriage, when I
First freed you of your arresting robes
And feasted – like first man –
On the rich offer of your
Fruitful orbs of lust,

As you punctuated into my ear
Love moans unheard by the cobwebs of that room
For months and months,

As you squirmed in a feeling that you
Were battling within your own self to
Master and to let it master you,

I touched the depth of your navel
With the stab of a flickering tongue,
Hissing into its curvaceous hollow
The wetness of warm desire, roping it with
The hoovering round of my mouth,

And I felt your flesh contract,
Your breath hold high,
And I knew, Prajapathi, that you needed that touch
Which would carry a message to your depths,
For you to be released into my love.

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Prajapathi, after sucking

I told you, don’t moan,
I told you not to make slurpy sounds
When you run your mouth over my dick,
And you were hurt that I said so,
And later, on that, a quarrel you would pick.

You say that there should be no barriers to desire.
I contradict that, specially as your
Small son watches the cartoons, ,next room.
You, bended knee, tongue twirled around my shaft
Take me higher and lower, between pleasure and doom.

The foreskin you pull way back, suck the
Reddened rocket-head with exaggerated greed,
Deep-throat it and run your tongue around in a frenzy,
Moving in and out, at breakneck speed.
You were never known among guys to go down on your knees.

Later, a shower later, you’re in my arms
And I kiss you; your eager lips I staple
With my lips that search your taste, while
I caress soft your nipple, your boob, shoulder and neck
While the other hand feels the fat layers around your waist.

You murmur you want this forever,
But you tell me you know that you can’t —
That you would rather have me as master
And be a servant to my pole; that you will
Give all in the world it takes to make me work your hole.

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