An Itch On The Acnestis
Drowned in the dead sea
half alive-half dead
persists a compunction.
In that posture,
sucking up underground
the reservoir of the life lived
The itch is persistent,
wailing silent support.
It’s a concussion, mutual.
Felt the intensity… felt it.
I can envelop only when it’s
open, it’s hurtful.
then the sundews may heal.
In exchange, bare my soul naked.
Peel it off. Read my black diaries.
An abuser, liar, selfish, hypocrite.
(throat chokes). Else,
shall last this lifetime.
A Tinge of Milieu
A crow caws and pierces a layer
on my body. I hum a secret word that
means stardom. My other self, not knowing that I bamboozled myself,
still longs for a lost heart. And I hum
another secret word that my other self
doesn’t understand yet. The grey sky
above me sheds down all its colour
one by one until all that’s left is a
complementary colour of my original self.
It weeps suddenly, the feeling reappears,
and the heart becomes warm and a piece
of it evaporates. I know now I have lost it,
forever. Who should I blame? the crow,
my other self, the sky above all look
I am I
my ancient heart had a citadel where streams converged
streams of emotions, some salted, others fresh, mixed
and performed a tango.
my blooming eyes sparkle the radiance of my free spirit
that roamed alone in the universe, now it seeks a company
of some wild little fools.
my peculiar hair has grown through thick and thin, but now
it wants to sense how it feels to resemble the colour of white
chocolate that gave me joy.
my thin red lips had the blue lipstick when there was green
pus in that wound I hid for years. now it’s soaking in the sun
but my healing lips still lie.
my address has changed times and again. my tummy has grown
full. still, it longs for the letters of milk from the breasts of my mother
and that 5 paise orange candy.
in the sharp contrast to my longing, there was a devil living secure,
and my silly little sister’s frock had touched me like the ice and
the devil left totally insecure.
my libido is like cappuccino, it’s steamy and keeps me flowing,
just like that knife in the kitchen cutting green chilli in pieces and
the onion peeling off slowly.
I am I.
[ Himanshu Ranjan lives in Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh. He is a poet and a Young India Fellow. His anthology is titled ’36 Love Stories’. He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org; The featured image is taken from instagram. ]