1.

you were my first lover

the man who watched me silently

exhale my post-coital cigarette.

and whose cum had the meaningless

childhood taste of a lemon tart.

who dripped sweat into lotus pads at his armpits

and smelt like an old book.

today,

on hand-made paper

we write letters

with liberal cursive strokes

(my stringy curls etched into words)

and paragraphs bleeding with spanish words,

a language you learnt

while I was re-arranging my life.

and tonight,

i want to sms you this poem

and you’ve got no cell phone.

bastard, you always did know

how to get to me.

2.

trampled tar heaving with rose water

and muslim blood

burning through my nostrils,

but i was back in your arms

licking and kicking

and tasting the sweat

of your thread,

my brahmin.

3.

what does his butt look like?

i don’t know.

i’ve never walked behind him.

nor have my tongue or finger.

4.

sometimes the kohl-eyed devadasi

will fart and spit,

but makes sure that only

her alluring beauty will

slide-show through his head,

not by forcing it,

but by becoming a earworm,

that gets trapped in his mind

and bounces from his tongue.

5.

friend, you wonder about the

strange sounds at night,

it is because my man is from

the place with hives of humans,

trains that look like resting pythons

the gaudiness of sequinned outfits

and at night he plays me like a saxophone

reminding himself of Rang Sharda

and looking over the reclaimation.

6.

i want to incubate between your skin

lay dormant

suddenly burst out into rashes

and hope

that you will think of me each time

you itch.

7. Stringed Orgasm

Your skin so dark that the silver around your throat shimmers
Hanging in Its balance is the first sound of the universe
The light strikes, constantly echoing the sound aum
In those times the entire universe resounds on your throat
Neelakantha swallowed the poison but
Did you swallow the first utterance?
Did you capture Parvathi’s Climax and string it on to your throat?
If such feats are yours
What name should we give you?