At the end here’s subtractive serendipity, the morning stars dissolve like fading perfume splashes in your yawn, down the icicle of your atma. What makes our togetherness monochromatic of antiquity? Come let’s smell the frankincense of this pregnant fecundity. For we long to have a prolonged eternity even after death. In a standstill elusive trauma and its medievalism, I’m deep-neck; the fathomless Pacific is tenacious to grow cranberries in Chinese style. The cold foggy morning of asterisk quivers the labour pain in the disturbed condescension. That blooming season after a chronic agreement hides in a nascent garden with envelopes full of avocados and royal Poinciana? Furthermore, from a coffin of snow-clad drama, the rhythm of chrysanthemums yells pink in mathematical anguish. Frosty innocence crawls sweetly even in your absence, like a familiar pang of birth inflation; what is there to disown or abandon? In a nutshell, we are obliviously hypochondriac to embrace the waltzing territory of our divinity and we long for a prolonged life even after death.
A red-lettered feeling of anachronism In the afternoons of separation The subtraction of togetherness yearns.
When you discover me while exposing the hijacking the forensic chronology of my murder; I try to metamorphose into an eternal Greek legend to ricochet from falsehood. Maybe like Atlas or Hercules in their late binaries longed for reconciliation. War is a new marketing deal of morphed minds. The ceiling of my passion behaves like gypsies and twists diagram of appetite. I take asylum in you in your fort, oh, my murderer, kissing occasionally the corrugated knife of your attacks! I look for a safe refuge beyond the reach of death; I negotiate with a world beyond the reach of the helium’s wickedness. I am out of the house-arrest and its bitter slashes of furrowed shadow. But how the other thing—the reverberation of baleful betrayal behind the past goes wild to submerge in your lonely apathy.
An evocative search of an eternal entity Who cares for cyclone on the sand dune? The moon sketches curvatures of the sea.
The City Outskirts Look Dog-eared
Between those thick obscured skies, the city outskirts look dog-eared like grandpa’s accounts book. Right with the advent of the medieval winter two smacked feelings bleed like a wounded bird of a lost era. A fresh century like the cherries of Ephesus clandestinely oozes into the early monsoon’s private part. There’s a metaphor of the distant Himalayas, there’s a protagonist of the Thar Desert dab a lot of cosmetics of a diamond. What was necessary to chide the chilled window panes of auspiciousness and the bare cuss words? I smoothly suck her presence in precision; in slicking winter’s porridge, humming whisper and shy subtlety, you sip rather at ease tickling verbatim and confusion. The messages in the envelope of smiles at new dawn hit the secret of trepidation. Beside and above her fragile amnesia a smell of stomata floods the kisses of hieroglyphics. I hear the twang; I grab the touches and the continental polyphony along the way.
Saffron of saliva in dry frustration In the middle of the night your spinal cord whines Okay, watch porn with a gallon of Champaign.
Pitambar Naik is an Indian poet and writer. He was longlisted for the Wordweavers India Poetry Contest 2017 and the Rhythm Divine Poetry Chapbook Contest 2018. His work is forthcoming in an Anthology of South Asian Queer Poetry for HarperCollins India, Joao-Roque Literary Journal, APM Anthology and has appeared in Vayavya, Ethos Literary Journal, Mojave Heart Review, Literary Orphans, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Bhashabandhan Literary Review, HEArt Online, Former Cactus, Coldnoon International, Spark Magazine, The Wagon Magazine, The Hans India, The New Indian Express, Better Than Starbucks, Kitaab, Muse India, Best Indian Poetry and elsewhere. He is working on his twin of poetry books. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.