One Night Stand

>> Monday, April 11, 2011

Indeed. Behind hazy veil of moonbeams
draping your haunted lids,
glimmers an image
the beats of invisible spurs,
while my figure itself
maunders, partially clad, sucked back
into wavering shadows,
like tales which simmer around
warm excruciating autumn evenings

summoning fragrance from everything.

I am sinking
with every trivial throb of your throat.
And coloring too.
It isn’t blue.
Its red that changes hue
each instant with kisses upon mouth,
tint substituting tint
tone fusing into tone,
our bodies rubbing words of a melody
as I scribble verses on your chest.

Oh. In red blaze of warmth
your eyes bring splendor,
pouring forth vermouth and absinthe
over pearly expanse of
heights cloaked with perennial snow
thawing into
a consuming sea of radiance
that kindles dark labyrinths of brains,
imparting secrets lurking through

crimson shafts penetrate your arms
while perfumed breaths
swell and expand on lips,
until we appear bare,
terminal, and complete to conquer.
Unforgettable, unrepeatable
we keep it between us
lest the world slays singing buds.
A rhapsody of russet and unearthly
we leave a poem with the other.

poetry to lay down with in the night
and wake up beside ...


Nilesh April 12, 2011 at 12:49 AM  

Love the shades of red...

Makes me to glow 'RED'!!!!

...and why not with the kinda surge of the red liquid within me!!!

aria April 12, 2011 at 12:52 AM  

ohh ho.. you know what.. you should start writing poems again..
thank you again for honoring "Terminal Moraine" with your kind comment .. *bows*

Blasphemous Aesthete April 12, 2011 at 8:56 AM  

Ain't it a pity that the momentary spurts of passion that kindled and burnt throughout the time the sun was marked absent won't be lived again, and though they can be etched in memories or may cling on to pages in fine words like these, which narrate the incident like eye witnesses, but never to be furnished with evidence or told with certainty to the world?

When words like these narrate a story, how could we feel that such things are wrong?

Nice narration.

Blasphemous Aesthete

Anonymous April 12, 2011 at 1:11 PM  

Beautiful, simply beautiful...speechless.

aria April 13, 2011 at 1:29 AM  

Blasphemous Aesthete .. hmm.. true.. didn't think like that.. you say it beautifully.. thanks :)

aria April 13, 2011 at 1:30 AM  

Anonymous .. if you are the one I think you are please leave your email id.. don't know where to write you.. thanks a lot for appreciation :)

V Rakesh April 14, 2011 at 7:33 PM  

Brilliant composition! Makes one read and read!

Perry Strange April 15, 2011 at 7:25 PM  

... ah. ah-hah!

"excruciating autumn", "throbbing throat", "lest the world slays singing buds..." and just, really, the whole damn narrative.

... chills.

aria April 15, 2011 at 9:26 PM  

Rakesh.. thank you :)

Perry.. thanks a lot... trust you are doing good :)

Sayak April 19, 2011 at 6:08 AM  

The drop of elixir, born out of the ravaging resolution of infinite dissolution of existence in an ocean of effervescent, fluid like scavenging urges, gets soaked up by the sponge of irreversible non-remembrance.

Wonderful poem! :)

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