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Monthly Archives: March 2015

Beautiful disaster

beautiful disaster

I’d like to write you a poem
To describe your lips and eyes
To describe how you make me feel
To describe your scent

But words evade me
And the rhythm is off
As my beating heart flutters
Beneath the touch of your finger

The sky seems bluer today
It must be the sound of your voice
Twisting me into a ball of desire
As your words caress me whole

And i have a feeling we are gonna win
Despite the scruples and fights
And your eyes are a deep pool
That have me swimming endlessly

I’ll take you down the road
The winding paths of passion
Maybe we can find love or lust
Though i might settle for a taste of you

And when you look at me like that
I find it hard to breath
And my legs turn to jelly
As the rhythm of your heartbeat
Melts me into mush

And your arms are inviting
Despite your sullen face
And my lips want to graze yours
In a heated debate of blatant desire

And your touch sets me on fire
Your musky scent a perfect distraction
It’s an emotional roller-coaster
And the sky is so damn blue

Your name on my lips
Is the only aphrodisiac
And i hope you are listening
As i sing out my soul you

My mind is on a trip
And my fingers wanna rake deep contours down your back
And leave a trail of myself
A tattoo of beautiful disaster

I hope you don’t mind
I can’t write you a poem
but i’ll take you down the winding paths
twisting in a reckless abandon of desire
the beat of our hearts a muddled frenzy

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2015 in Erotica, Muse, Poetry

 

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Coming Out

coming

She is cupping my left breast and teasing my nipple as she stares intently into my eyes. She looks pensive. She is here, but not really with me. I can tell there’s something she wants to tell me but is wrestling with the way to frame it. I let her stew on it for a while. When i can’t wait anymore, i snap at her “ What the fuck is going through your mind?”

She looks at me and makes to smile then goes, “I noticed you’ve grown thin…”

Thin. She said thin, good people. Level with me here. The fact that she was just swooning over me minutes ago and moaning her ass out seems to have totally slipped her mind. She said thin. Really, how do you even describe someone that way.

Well, i might have shed a few pounds, but really, i don’t look like America’s Top Model or one of those Victoria’s Secret models.

“Who are you pining for? Is it him again? You know he is poison in your system. You ought to flush him out for good” she goes on as if she hasn’t seen the storm brewing in my eyes. “Seriously honey, stop doing this to yourself…it’s better to love something that can love you back” she winds up the observation philosophically…no longer tweaking my nipple.

“Coming from a closeted lesbian, that’s rich”, i spit out thoughtlessly. I see the pain in her eyes and feel guilty for a while. Then anger at the truth she just said hits me and i just ignore the feeling.

“You have a way of brushing away reality, that even amazes me. And not a lot amazes me. How long do you intend to be in the closet? I’ll get tired of coming to see you whenever you are horny, and then what? Are you gonna find a girlfriend then?”

She started it. I don’t come with brakes when i start to verbal diarrhea. She looks the other way as if that will make the words less truthful.

“C’mon smartypants. What are you going to do when i move on and actually find a man or a woman to live with. What then? You are fun and all, i admit that. I fell in love with you at some point, but i’m over it”…she gasps at that as i go on with my tirade.

“What do you want?” She says suddenly.

“World peace…gender equality…a million dollars..ice-cream, another fuck…in any order”, i say jokingly.

She is seething in blind rage at that point. I just look at her sheepishly

“I am fucking serious. What do you want?” she goes on without the slightest sign of a smile on her beautiful face. She dimples up even when she is crying. She makes me hot when she is mad.

Well, no one has ever really asked me what i wanted before. I’m feeling a mixture of emotions. But i need to answer her.

“For starters how about you coming out of the closet. You need to live to your full potential and not tied down by society and it’s opinion. I want to get over this creep in my system. I want to be happy. Sounds silly but i do. I want to travel the world and make love on the beach. I want to watch the sun rise and set with someone i love. I could go on, but you are not Oprah” i say without a smile..

“You’ll get your slice of heaven. I know that. You are made of more than you accept. And you are the most stubborn piece of shit i know”, she says with a smile, no longer mad at me.

I notice that she mentions nothing about coming out and i decide to drop it. We’ve had this fight over and over.

“It must be wonderful to have a gift of seeing into the future”, i mutter as we fall over ourselves with deep laughter.

“I feel a migraine developing”, i tell her as i start to dress up.

“You got it the wrong way darling. THAT, comes before the sex,” she says with a shriek, pulling out a cigarette.

As she saunters to the window pane, i put on my sneakers watching her. She has an ass to make your jaws drop.
I manage to break myself from the trance to bolt before her husband comes back. We kiss one last time and the taste of cigarettes and her sweet taste linger long after we part ways.

 
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Posted by on March 20, 2015 in Erotica, Muse, Writing

 

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Nightmares

empty

Then, the nights were a blur. Of bloodied nightmares. And howling demons. Gawking at my fear. Cackling maniacally as i shat my pants. Poking and jabbing my ribs. Hurling abuses at my feet.

And i was shaking like a leaf. Withdrawn into myself. Pulling my flimsy coat to cover myself from the wind ringing in my ears and chilling me to the bones.

But i’d never really escape. As much as my eyes were shut..i’d feel them. Strutting around and shrieking. A mental asylum would be heaven compared to that.

Then the pain came. It always came. Right around the time the shrieking stopped. Then it was my turn to scream. Clutching at my belly. Tears never really came. It just hurt endlessly.

My personal hell. Always the memories. Always the fucking memories. Of moments frozen in a past life. Things i could never change. Mistakes i couldn’t undo. A bloodied conscience. Gothic in its details.

A cocktail of emotions. All related to anger, pain and betrayal. And the final of them all, emptiness. It would hurt so bad, then i’d just go numb to it all and finally feel drained. Then i’d feel nothing. No pain. No pleasure. Nada. Just a former shell of who i once was.

I preferred the pain. Always did. That showed a part of me was human. I dreaded going numb. I knew what came next. Then i’d not really care. I’d go numb and pray for the pain to come back. To shock me back to life. But it never did. I just went numb and then hollow.

I’d empty out all my emotions. The wind would cease howling with a bang as i felt my soul close shut. And my image on the mirror inspired not a tinge of emotion. My tear-stricken face didn’t stir an iota of feeling in me. I just stared at myself without cause.

Eventually i’d slump back to a semblance of a life as i stirred awake. But the aftertaste of being empty never really left

 
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Posted by on March 19, 2015 in Writing

 

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Recycled Muse

muse

i see you now
clad in arrogance
in the tilt of your chin
and the way you hold your head

i can see you
drenched in lasciviousness
winking at anything that moves
making catcalls at the nuns

you keep glancing my way
in case i miss the show
but you and i know
i couldn’t give a fuck less

so you pick out my friend
hoping i’ll be shattered
but darling it’s your call
wherever you decide to stick it

and i remember the promises
made at the heat of passion
to forever stick by me
and i can’t help but laugh

see the thing is
i’ve been hurt before
i finally grew numb
to pain and betrayal

so juggle it darling
the pride and arrogance
you look like a circus clown
but heck, to each his own

the tilt of you chin
no longer appeals to me
and the timbre of your voice
is like nails on my ears

i guess what i’m trying to say is
you can’t inspire me for a poem
since i found a new muse
and i couldn’t recycle you if i wanted to

Photo: stolen from pinterest

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2015 in Muse, Poetry

 

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I Don’t

I don’t need passionate promises
Words sealed with kisses
Meals shared with laughter
Or a shared drink after a long day

I don’t need your arms around me
To wake up to your face in the morning
To hear you snore beside me
Or watch your face as the rays kiss it

I don’t need poetry
That describe my beauty and smile
That promise of a future together
An eternity with you

I don’t need phone calls
To remind me that you care
Or late-night chats
When you are far away

I don’t need a massage
When I’ve had a long day
To be held in your arms
And rocked to sleep

I don’t need you to listen
As i yap about my day at work
About my friends
Or about my family

I don’t need your assurance
When i feel like giving up
Or you sending me funny pictures
When I’m having a rough day

I just don’t…

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2015 in Writing

 

Canvas affair

painter

Paint me right now, darling
As I stand in your studio apartment
Freezing to my bones
As the coffee-pot hums

Put me on your canvas
Right this moment goddammit
Don’t wait for me to become
Another significant moment you’ll recollect

Do it now
Make a portrait of me
With your smoldering cigarette between your lips
And your tousled hair the perfect distraction

What’s stopping you lover-boy?
Or do you live for memories?
For recollections and regrets?
Turned into a bunch of colors?

Or do you live for flash-backs?
To recall the almost perfect moments?
Slipping right through your arms?
And dripping into canvas?

Paint my rage and dismay
My lust and desire
My love and hate
Paint my passion

I refuse to become a memory
You’ll revisit when inspiration fails you
The anger that fuels you on
The muse you ache for

I want you to spread my contours on canvas
Mould me in perfect strokes
Touch me up delicately
Till am but a web of fine details

I want you to tease my image with that brush
Gently into canvas
Or you can use your pent-up rage
To create a swirling masterpiece

Whatever you do…I want you to do it this minute

Photo: Stolen from Pinterest

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2015 in Muse, Poetry

 

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Books and Bullets

barrels

Everyone has an addiction. Mine happens to be books. Good books to be precise. I have to read something or my mind consumes me. Then i feel like i can drown in my thoughts. I feel like my mind wants to eat me alive.

Yesterday was one of those days. I couldn’t put pen to paper because the thirst for written material was driving me to the wall. I felt like yanking out my hair. And the funny thing is, i can’t trick myself into re-reading a book when i get this urge. I must lay my hands on a new book. This must be how a crack-addict feels when she is out of cocaine and the thirst comes knocking.

So i pulled on my jeans, changed into my worn but totally comfortable sandals, and an arsenal jersey. In hindsight, i should have just put on a regular t-shirt and spared myself catcalls and other manner of disgusting attention. You see, i am not a soccer fan…i just happen to have the jersey. But apparently there was a match yesterday and every Dick *pun intended* that i came across yesterday kept reminding me of the fact and assuring me that we would win. I don’t give a fuck darling!

On my way to buy a novel in town,i encounter a crowd. You see, there’s a river just before you get to town…and it’s not a lush serene environment because i happen to live on the wrong side of town. It’s frequented by hawkers and muggers at any time of day. Streets kids also spend the nights there and a major part of the day too. So going through the place can be a harrowing experience if you are one of those people who want to live to be 150yrs old. As for me, i gamble with my life or rather my life is a gamble so that’s nothing to scare me.

Oh, the crowd. I ask from one woman what the heck is going on and she says that a man has been shot and his body is under the bridge. I ask why he was shot and she snaps at me that he is a thief, as if that is obvious, pointing out a plain-clothes cop who delivered the justice. He is arrogantly pointing out the work of his art and i can’t help but think that he must be a psychopath.

Like i said, the place crawls with hawkers selling clothes and shoes utmost at 1$ so shooting someone for that just doesn’t make sense to me. The cop has a God-complex though, that’s the only excuse for gunning down a man when he could have just arrested him or shot to slow him instead of shooting to kill. But he looks satisfied with his work, so off i go on my merry way.

I get myself a Judith Krantz book, Spring Collection and walk back…forget the fact that it’s now dark. I bump into this guy trying to cross the road. Hold up, not bump per se. This fucking moron just rams his weight straight into me…my solar plexus taking most of if, i almost puke out my guts….and no, he doesn’t slow down to apologize..he just shoots off into the streets. Jerk! At that very minute, i am seething with a blind rage and shaking with anger…and i wish it was his body under the bridge…you heard me right…i am not an angel.

If there’s something charming about Nairobi, it has to be the gentlemen. I am using that term loosely. Guys just bump into you on the street and don’t feel the need to apologize. I get it, we are a busy nation..but can we just avoid the apologizing part by walking like people who actually have a set of working eyes? That would be lovely. Thank you.

I get to the bridge and there is a crowd still. Leave alone the fact that pickpockets are crawling the area.

People are drawn to blood. They are drawn to the extraordinary. They are drawn to a little action to spice up their mundane lives. So i wonder how boring their lives must be. To just spend your evening looking at a body, never mind the fact that the body is not exactly visible…it’s beneath the bridge and some street kids sniffing glue are right under there with it.

I never find out how old the poor guy was. What he really stole. If he had a family. If he was stealing to feed his kids or just because he gets a thrill out of it. Or maybe, just maybe…that particular bullet had his name on it. Nobody really cared. According to them, it served him right for stealing. And they just drool over the man’s death like it’s going to warm them at night. Like it’s going to change their bank balance. But I could tell it turned some of them on. Who said society’s moral garment was still neat? It put a smile on their faces.

I walk back with my book and encounter a road accident. Traffic is a bitch, thanks to some jerks in a hurry to nowhere. I find an evil smile for the occasion and walk away. I get immersed in the book till i fall asleep clutching it only to hear the alarm clock announcing another day, and find the book on the floor.

So, just another day…

Photo: Stolen from Pinterest

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2015 in Writing

 

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