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- 03/24/2017
- 554 Words
- 788 Views
- 1 Comments
Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Kavya, My Poetry - 26. Up On The Massage Table
Up On The Massage Table
I
Heat up the oil
Your hands are cold and dispassionate
Let the oil's warmth seep up your unconscious
Making you more malleable to touch
Figures created out of mud and ludicracy
Break not the chain of bondage of eternal servitude of lust
II
I didn't buy you
I can't, because you can't buy humans anymore
I just bought your services for the night
A few hours of relaxation
I couldn't buy you but I wish I could
Buy your smile and tear it up and throw it away
at the roadside dump and see your face behind.
III
Your face is beautiful
And you are poor
And that is the reason
Why you are a whore
Oops, I meant masseur
IV
I enjoy your face even when you look vacantly
at the pasty paint scraping off the wall while you
delicately push away my towel
I don't know why I use it
May be I like to play hooky
Your vacant eyes irritate me, but I
ignore them at the urging of your efficient fingers
Why should one body part take precedence over the other?
I like your torso as much as your arms
Your big strong beefy arms, no doubt
strengthened from kneading up millions of clients
Your hands can even make corpses happy, like Osiris.
V
You try chatting up
I tell you, it's not your strong suit
You tell me stories from home
Of sunlit village roads and games in the pond
with a younger cousin way back when
you were still a virgin and how you loved him, and
how much you like bikes and torn jackets are all the rage and
potatoes are getting expensive and all political leaders are liars...
I tense up at your incessant chattering and you fall silent feeling it under your thumb
Or may be you start dreaming of riding bikes
through your bright village dirt roads racing your politician
cousin who looks like a potato
Or something
I don't care
I never wanted to know what you think
Of the world or me
That's why I never felt so free
getting naked in front of anybody else... May be my mom
I mean I bought you, sorry, your services
after thorough perusal just like I choose the flavour
of my ice cream at the super market
I am finicky like that
VI
Turn over
Your tone is always stoic when it comes to the fun part
You could have commanded armies with that calm dialect
Anticipation quickens my pulse
And hardens my expectation
Now you start playing hooky
Going in and out
Under the towel
Almost but not quite there
You know how I like it
But your face betrays no affection
Your eyes grow more vacant with every lunge
Like a game of chess
We play
With my body as a wager
And your affections
You win every time
VII
Feral sounds
Obscene sounds
Belching, farting
Squelching, splashing
You are all that
And more thrashing
Till the snakes
Give up and hide
And you act as if
You loved the fight
But you don't, I can see it in your eyes
May be I should get a blind masseur
Next time
19/03/2017
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Thank you for taking your time to read this.
Tags in blog: Narrative, Stream of Thought
Thank you for taking your time to read this.
Tags in blog: Narrative, Stream of Thought
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1
Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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