This poem is too vulgar.

In what my dad describes as a pure teak

bed, his dad got built in 1955, I plunder

the history of my entire family, in a single night.

 

Nero, who is still

clumsy at best, hurts his bare feet

as I laugh in distance. The trees that

were on the window pull up and stare,

Shake violently in protest.

This vulgar desire that has long existed

in monochrome, reveals to me

Nero’s face in freckles, his hand

playing with my hair as the smell

of his perfume, eucalyptus, escapes the room

and entices the gods too,

makes the mirrors jealous, sit up

in surprise, as my eyes move back

to Nero’s again. I taste the soft skin

on his neck, go down, the bridge

his back, his muscles defined

through history. As perverse sounds

fill the room, penetrate walls.

My memory fades, I forget if Nero

is who he says, if his language

is one I speak.

Our voiceless faces in exile

console each other all night.

It is kindness that keeps us together,

plundering teak beds for pleasure

In lost homes.

Advertisements

Home

and where have you been
my love
what nights have you seen
come sit
in comfort, you can rest
this bed
i made for you, tonight
you see
that night you left
in haste
i left the moon behind
to keep
watch. And return one day
with letters
that read your name, still
in bold
i know you remember this address
we call
home. miles away, it tells me
you are
here, with me, tonight, this bed
lies in love.

Absence.

My poetry is still young,
wet in its making.
It sticks to my hands
I carry it everywhere
 
What you think
I have left it with you
on your bed
has seeped below the mattress
 
and stuck to the marble floors
where you stride with your lover
before you two get on bed
that is all my poetry sees.
 
That is to say
it can see you in my absence
silently. without words.
in my absence.

Saturday.

32792427_1633786890071453_6887675633384554496_n.jpg

 

like sunflowers belong to the sun
I wish my name carried words
from yours. I hunt here on the bed.
Where your scent still lies on my favourite
bed-sheet.

That i must wash today
before mother arrives and asks
what i did for the weekend
as i sit imagining you, your lips
and how your hands carried me last
Saturday.

Now, I wait. Patiently for mother
with my carefully constructed lies
i watch the front door, wishing, imagining:
you walk through the door, with
Saturday in your arms and on your lips,
Me.

Exile.

40392443_1789359217847552_3771655707422621696_n
In exile,
my desire mimics the space
it occupied in my small garden
under the tree where it whittles your name
and whistles like the wind
as it did a year or two ago
was it summer? or the rain?
no one remembers.
 
In exile, my desire mimics
everything but you, weeps
and slowly whispers:
 
I have overstayed
my welcome
but do not let go.