My Nightmares taste like Dirt.

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Fear flows sometimes
and spurts on some days
out from the warm orifices
in the sleep-deprived sweat glands.

A thirst ridden tongue
has a memory of its own.
It dreams of the dirt
and the sweet hymns of an unending rain.

The flag still hangs on my wall
but they keep washing out blood from it.

My hands are tired of holding the bodies I cannot touch.
Another celestial rotation, a swirl of nothingness :

They have made me a man full of unwritten elegies,
who stares into the abyss rhyming a voiceless song of grief.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Last of Us.

Corroded decisions,
accumulated as a incompetence in disguise.
Cooked over immature fires
of unfortunate desires.

We are a byproduct of this world,
not promised to anyone.
A flower; crushed.
A voice dawned.
Too early.

We are the last of us.
Unheard, unseen,
the perplexities of our nails
are full of dirt, of truth and fire,
they still haunt the afternoons
in vivid brights.

We chose to surrender
in an aftermath, we cannot smell.
forget the visions now.

Welcome to darkness,
take your shoes off, please.

Should I still float?

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For the past seven days
I have been floating in the carcass of this boat
dancing to the tunes of mediocrity.
My daisies are now dead.
Their aching souls have found solace
in the howlings of the shameless winds.

It’s so easy to disappear once you are out of words.
You become a shadow with a taste for silence.

The lack-lustered azure shows no remorse
for this land without a song.
It cannot weep tonight,
for the madness in its belly
while groping the breasts
of colorless clouds
has been ejaculated long ago.

I conjure the ripples
over a lifeless lake.
This is one of the last daisies, I found.
A few more hours into this rummage,
and I shall decapitate my existence
with a thirst for words
still lingering over my voiceless tongue.
Feed’em to the hungry dogs.
Call it Poetic Justice.


© Shashank Bhardwaj

Senseless Creations.

colorful-ramen

For clicking a perfect picture,
of a perfectly cooked Ramen,
with eggs beautifully boiled to perfection,
your flabbergasted eyes forget to observe
the tasteful symmetries turning cold; the synchronous diffusion
of the flavor and aroma, conjuring a flood of hunger in your mouth,
eventually gulped in an unapologetic haste.
A long awaited warm nirvana, evaporated
for a moment of senseless creation
that can never fill your insides in reality.
How can you be happy now?
Just how?

 

© Shashank Bhardwaj

 

 

Tryst with Myself

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I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.

I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement

I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.

And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Tea

She once asked,
for the morning tea
with those sparkling eyes
full of thirst.
I paid no heed knowingly
to let her suffer sweetly from within.

I didn’t expect though:
In the warm drowsiness
she would prepare it with her soft hands
after removing my shorts
and gulp it all in,
slowly and steadily
keeping my eyes closed.