Moth Love

Girl's Night Out was every Wednesday night. This week, they made reservations for 8 pm at this old bar downtown. It had been long since they had indulged in loud noises and nectarine mead.

She picked her favourite outfit in gossamer, and powdered her arms, blushing as she mulled over what she was going to share with the girls tonight.

The boys she had met were old, dull and asymmetrical. A heartless breed of tricksters who'd initiate entanglement through meaningless flattery. She'd wanted something that was long lasting and beautiful. A relationship that would not end in death, decay or caterpillar children.

They flit around each other sharing stories from the week, when suddenly they noticed her glowing from the inside.

She sniggered and unveiled the bright man she had met. Of how she singed to his touch and burned at the thought of his name. "I made love to a ball of light" she said rubbing her belly.

They were blinded as they witnessed the birth of a new breed of fireflies twinkling around the bar.

* For Magpie Tales

** For 3WW

Everything she feels is Red

Dabbing a dash
on that canvas.
She ends up dousing
the entire surface
with Red.
Red. Red. Red.
She chants.
Pomegranate wine.
Beetle juice.
Murdered bloodstains.
Menstruation.
Signs of lost virginity.
Seepage from a warm lamb
waiting to be marinated.
A kaleidoscope of varied emotions
Which we still define
With a single
Red.

Like when she sat there on those redbrick steps.
Her rougened cheeks pinched with excitement
as they learnt to conceal a blush.
That vermilion of requited love in marriage
had found its way by parting her forehead.
She squatted with the poise of a newly wed,
with the ends of her maroon ghunghat 
tucked perfectly between the gaps of her teeth.
With bright gums, she smiled innocently,
masking her brazenness under the veil.
Of scarlet passions, her docility
concealed the potentials of seduction
that he would experience
behind closed redwood doors.

But the red she felt when kissed,
Tasted unlike the red of swallowed guilt.
A lump of swollen red stuck in the throat
tainted with hues of possessive rage.
Burning embers of furious red,
emblazoned her eyes
as her husband turned rose-pink
at the mention of his auburn-headed mistress.

Turmoil, anguish and angry red,
twisted within her innards.
Poaching ulcers in her mouth
she chewed on dark betel leaves,
to build up a storm.
Splash.
She spewed the contents
from her coral tongue
on to a canvas.
Yet the new formed creation
was celebrated as
your everyday
Red.



*For Photo Credit

The Chronicles of House Lannister - The Imp, the Cripple and the Mother of Madness

Jamie Lannister's Valyrian steel needed no whetstone. The blade was accustomed to sharpening itself whilst slicing through skin, flesh, tendon and bone in one single stroke. But what good was steel to a man with no sword hand? The man who had sworn to be the King's guard and eradicate every enemy of the throne was now sitting near the stairway, with only five fingers to count.

"I don't have my right hand, but at least I'm not Theon Greyjoy!" he winced, thanking his stars for not having met Ramsey Bolton. He continued drifting into sleep, whispering "Cercei. Cercei," as he imagined the pleasures that he could continue to experience with his left hand.

Tyrion walks in, feeling faint and squeamish as he discovers Joffrey's love for violence against anything that moves. He looks at his amputee brother and squeals "Winter in coming, but that doesn't mean you need to as well!" as he brushes off images of his naked medusa-headed blonde-haired evil sister making love to his brother.

"By the Gods of the 7 Kingdoms, Jamie, you can't possibly tell me you still want her! Incest breeds vermin. With the release of Joffrey from your loins, you very well know that science doesnt need to evolve and prove that you shouldn't engage in coitus with your twin!"

Cercei enters with a scroll, beaming and mocking Tyrion, knowing full well that she was holding King Robert Baratheon's Will between her fingers. She cracks open the wax seal and sits there with raised expectations.

To My Lady,

I, Robert of the House Baratheon, know that you, Cercei Lannister, My Queen, have served me well. The wine on my lips curbs me from running around circles, so I'll be brief.

In your time here at King's Landing, you have tried many things.

Gore. Check.
Sex.Check.
Gore whilst having sex. Check. check.
Sex with me. Check.
Sex with twin brother. Check.
Sex with other Lannisters. Check. Check.
Blond children. Check. Check. Check.
Ordered mercenaries to kill enemies. Check.
King dead. Check.
Ned Stark dead. Check.
Joffrey dead. Check.
Tywin dead. Check.
Valar Morghulis. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Plot twist - You can fuck and kill anyone you want Cercei, but the Emmy still goes to the Imp.

You therefore inherit 10 Gold Dragon coins, to enable you to enroll in the best acting class at Westeros.

Signed without sarcasm,
Your Dead Husband



*For 3WW

**For Photo Credit

Motions of Emotion

With scabs that covered craters on the surface,
she camouflaged the scars that ran deep.
Her skin prickled into pearly white mountains
as vagrant thoughts left her gravitating towards him.
Drawing attention through tidal waves,
she influenced seventy percent
of what he was made of,
but let go of the imaginary reigns
that controlled him.
He scoffed away, sullen and adamant,
to create a distinct new revolution,
to stand out from the other eight,
to leave a mark in the universe.
So she stood there at a little distance,
trying hard to hold her ground.
and silenced her irrational impulses,
by orbiting around his space.

Because he was her world.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** For 3WW*** Photo courtesy LayoutSparks

Swan Song

Clinging to the contours of her calf muscles,
the fine thread-work of motherly innocence
dipped its silk, and licked the surface
of those still grey waters.

The voices in her head had made their peace,
when the argument met with a quiet scream.
The blood on her hands had curdled
from the blood of her womb.
Squinting to salvage the last tear in her eye,
she ambled stoically to the middle of the lake.
and saw the rejected duckling
murmur softly in the glistening black waters.

The broad-laced wide-eyed bodice
sprawled around and braced her frame.
Pivoting on one foot, she swiveled
to bury the remains of her seed under her sole.
Swirling on ripples of unwashable guilt,
she tried her best to spiral downwards,
and wished to drain away
through that wide gaping manhole.

But the black swan sat there cursed
to a cold world sans imagination,
for never again would she find herself
tumbling down that rabbit hole.





* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: Actor Lisa Dwan in Beside the Sea captured by the lens of Graeme Robertson

New Old Cold!

I stood there
Anaesthetized and
Frozen to the sidewalk,
Engulfed by the echo
Of a whistling windchill
That found my skin
Through layers
And overalls.
Cold and fear
Amalgamated with
Pinched memories
That spiked
Like shards
Of uneven glass
Splintering through
Follicles of gooseflesh.
I pictured his kind face
Like a hologram
That stood out
And blended
Within the crowd.
Prickled skin
Softened to faith,
And sensation
Kicked in
As I held that
Accustomed cup
Of sublime heat.
I quickly learned
To jumpstart
My world
To the present.
To the love that
Brought me back
To a country
Long left behind.
When suddenly
Those relentlessly
Nipping reflections
Of minus degree'd
Hardships
Melted softly,
Like the season's
First snowflake
That assimilated
Into this
Untouched mug
Of caffeinated delight.







* For 3WW

** For Theme Thursday

*** Photo Credit: Design-Dautore

She Waited

Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

So she’d wait there after midnight, behind a curtained wall frame
Stealthily whispering whistles to call out my name
Dragging fearful memories with every stride
I’d take refuge in an old cupboard and hide
Peeking through the chink as she came

Her silhouette would burn with a platinum flame
Long soggy hair-strands would veil her shame
Soft sobs broke into screams as she cried
So she’d wait there after midnight.

This was the home she had hoped to claim
One that was etched with her future last name
Black-sooted droplets of tears had dried
She had longed to be an army man’s bride
He’d promised her the stars, but he never came
So she’d wait there after midnight.





* For imaginary garden with real toads
** My attempt at Rondeau Poetry rhyming, dedicated to Friday the Thirteenth 

Unformed

Mouth to mouth
I breathe out
And fog up the reflection.
Soundless droplets of mist
Cling to mercurial glass
And sit there, holding on
To words that haven’t
Been conceived yet.

There’s a twinge
In the pit of my stomach
A seed of life
That has promised to sprout.
My innards have coiled down
With a patchwork of bulky nerves
Thatched together to create
That perfect nest.
As I crumple into the sink
And vomit yellow bile words
But no one hears a thing.

I walk into the closet
And raise my tee shirt.
Cupping both palms
Around the navel
I look through its passage
Into that kaleidoscope of life
Where the umbilical
Connects to the netherworld
With those gone away,
With those dead.

I look into its father's eyes
Dilated brown irises
That collapse
With unconditional love
As I resign the world
In silent deep sleep.

* For 3WW
** For Imaginary Garden 

An Outage

Tight deadlines kept looming in. Her planner looked disgruntled with over-booked appointments. Work was almost always on her mind.

He was working on his PhD in Philosophy and had gotten used to having conversations with Descartes and Nietzche at the dinner table.

It was 8:30pm. She stepped into the apartment and walked straight to the kitchen, scrolling through the New York Times on her iPad. She gave him a wry smile, mechanically picked out a pack of frozen selects and dumped them into the microwave.

“Wow! They’re expecting a complete power outage in the city tonight!!” she gasped, mentally calculating the amount of work she had left until the next day.

Before he could respond to her, the lights made a slight hissing sound and the bulbs began to flicker. Within seconds they sat there in total eclipse, fumbling around familiar objects within the unaccustomed shadow within their space.

He reached out for the first drawer but couldn’t locate the torch or the spare candles that were still there before her last birthday. She panicked and grumbled, irritated at him for not being prepared for this in time.

He came over to her side and held her by the shoulders, concerned that she might trip over the paraphernalia in the dark. They stood there in complete silence, which was only broken by the soft whistles of the wind that came from the draft above the kitchen table.

He calmly pulled out his cellphone as his guiding light, and rummaged through the refrigerator for baby spinach, plum tomatoes, red onions and cottage cheese, dicing the ingredients before they were tossed in with olive oil and some seasoning.

He poured two glasses of zinfandel with their meal, and switched on her eReader.

Eating quietly with make-shift candles in the dark, they sat there in absolute serenity having a meaningful iPad-light dinner.



*For 3WW
**Photo Credit


 

WTF

You have kids all over the place.
One stuck in tuitions. One practicing lawn tennis. One playing with the neighbour’s Rottweiler. And one threatening to walk out of your womb any moment.

You’ve had a long day.

You clean, do the laundry, fold clothes, talk over the phone, play counselor to your husband’s sister, call the neighbor, shop, wash and clean some more on repeat mode.

You enter the kitchen and get started on making a complicated recipe. 

You toil and toil from gas burner to gas burner with 4 not-so-perfect batches of Navratna Korma.

The husband comes home and the aromas seem to be an effective mood-lifter. 

You're relieved that the 5^th batch wont see the insides of the trash can.

He takes a spoonful. Pauses. Smiles. You’ve nailed his mom’s recipe (Epic moment! After years of marriage and the 4th child on its way, you finally got him to agree to that one?!)

…And you give credit to the mirchi powder you used?

Bollocks!

Sometimes, I hate advertisements.

Ready for the Kiln

Your fingers.
Those long artistic feminine reins
With flesh, bone and supple skin
Met mine
Manly, unpretentious and calloused.

Your little palms
Were lost in mine
Finding comfort in the gaps.

Emotions cemented skin on skin
Contours and crevices well-fused.
We held our fate lines
In one firm squeeze
With the head and heart in place.

Giddied by your touch
My thick stubby hands
Transformed
Into dancing dervishes
That whirled and swooned,
Pivoting slowly
Around the wheel
Of your assertive palms.

Those small stern hands
Were indeed your own.
But in yours alone
Mine were clay.

A Bagful of Reminiscence

The brown satchel sat there, snugly tucked between her winter clothes and overcoats. She'd rummaged through this section of her wardrobe hoping to find something casual to sling along her left shoulder. 

The tan leather looked raisin-creased in an unaired closet with faded impressions from over use. She loosened the contents hastily, with the glee of a child waiting to discover the trinkets in his mum's forbidden drawer. 

Dried flowers. Lost perfume. Expired paracetamol tabs. 

Gooey chocolate. Gandhian coins. Sticky change in between. 

Deformed granola bars. Parched wet-wipes. Gunk.

Chipped sea shells. Two movie tickets. Cufflinks.

Duplicate keys. Pantyhose. An invitation card. Rust.

Sandy grime of time on things.

On photographs and filigree alike. 

She recklessly overturned the forgotten fragments on the cold floor. And then swept the remains into a biodegradable bin.

Realizing, that every once in a while even old memories can do with some recycling.

Plane Differences

She was your typical window-seat person.

Walk in first and move out last.

Stuck in that little corner, she loved to stare

At the street lights from up above,

And their reflections in the sky.

She’d break her head over a cryptic crossword,

Or dig her face into a thousand-leaf book,

It didn’t matter if she shivered from the air conditioning

“Who complained about such a ridiculous thing?”

She’d wait patiently for her neighbour, to call
The flight attendant for an extra bag of pretzels

And request for a blanket to avoid turning blue.

10-hour flights were a piece of cake,

For she had mastered the art of manipulating her bladder.

While the kidneys worked hard on accumulating every drop

She’d wait till she was exactly five dribbles short.

Those moments of explosive discomfort

Would nudge her to poke the walrus next to her seat.

He was your regular aisle kind-of-guy.

With his right leg dangling freely outside, he’d make

Small talk with random people in the next row.

He'd keep pressing the light above his head

So he could get another glimpse of that P.Y.T.’s rack.

When the flight purser dished out safety instructions,

Our man in shorts would take a cat nap.

He would complain about the food

The service. And the booze.

Asking if it was free for the 14^th time.

Then rise from his seat and take a little stroll,

Counting the number of vacant seats to do a little math.

He’d snort, choke and giggle on a 3:00am flight

Because Chandler Bing said a funny little thing.

But when the wheels hit the ground, he’d be the first

To unfasten his seat belt and make a dash for the door.

They obviously didn’t meet

And nothing really happened.
Cause while he was out there in ‘Baggage Claim’
She was still stuck between the Window and the Aisle.

REM Adventure

He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.

She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.

He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.

He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.

He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.

The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.

She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease. 

Astral travel is not for the weak-hearted. Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.

They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.

In Exchange

For the number of times that I have thought you don't exist,
I could have...


...sailed across 24,906 miles around the earth. 
And surfed on a sea of countless copper pennies.

...flipped through 478 crisp white pages in 963 old books.
And connected those shiny fragmented dots on an indigo sky.

...consumed 1,848 rich calories in every greasy meal.
And wasted endless hour-full minutes in wishful thinking.

...built five-story houses from 1,84,000 well-glazed bricks.
And installed a private salt-water lake made of tears.

But because you still dwell in the crevices of the heart.
And you survive in every gushing pulsating milli-beat.

The equations are now in perfect balance.

And I'm left with Nothing.

Second Chances

It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.

Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.

The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.

He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.

She was prettier than he could remember.

He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.

"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.

They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.

All I Want is for You to...

Surprise me with custard apples in April

and snowflakes in Bombay's November.

Find me a flawless orange maple leaf

and ink my back with a black sea horse.

Sing to me with made-up words

and recite about love in a foreign tongue.

Cajole me into wearing fuschia silk

and tie up my hair in an unkempt braid.

Touch me without touching me

I wish to bathe in your warmth.

Spoil me for I can be spoiled

by nothing and everything.

Hold me on the brink of life

and breathe harder when I miss my breath.

Take me back to that little girl

who believed in flying with gossamer wings.

What did you Expect?

That habitual 

glint. The

same dilated

size.

You searched

for my love

in her
willful eyes.

You stared

harder to

catch one

little glimpse.

Of a world

forgotten

and left

behind.

You looked

for my dreams

in her
wide eyes.

How would it

be there?

My love

was Blind.

Dazzling Emotions

It had been eons since she was besotted by the sky. Her wavy dark hair circumvented her space sending livid ripples of love-lost fury in all directions. She gurgled towards him brimming with hope and love; and came lashing back home when she found none.

Until one calm dark night when she sat by herself and observed her muse with a smirk. It dawned on her then that she was actually mesmerized by those shiny little trinkets that covered every inch of his expansive frame.

So she scuffed, scuttled and shuffled her feet, without a second glance above.
For she had learned to braid her own tresses with stars.

Pan Waltz

She was spooned out of her comfort zone and thrown on to the steaming hot dance floor.

She sputtered and stuttered and sizzled on her feet. And then the broad shouldered yeast lord slithered in.

Together, they swooned and pirouetted in perfect circles.

Complicated footwork followed suit.

He dragged along, but she was light, light, light.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.