Rituals of Earthly Bodies

Eyes opened up to confide, there was faith, there was belongingness. Sea shells were deposited unaccompanied on shores and shallow water receded so silently into its origin.

Moist of sticky sand covered hues of those bare bodies. Bare bodies that were stripped into their entangled yet unbounded fantasies. The shapes and images were obscure, yet bulkiness of the flesh was lucid and untamed. There was no separation it seemed. The budding civilization connected pulses gravitated in earthly soil.

The resonance of the heart beats could ring across their thudding bodies. Strokes of different layers amalgamated into feelings of pain and pleasure.

Time was lost, waves were subdued in oceans and they both wanted more of the unknown, uncertain and the unreal.

He whispered “If pleasure was unguided, my body is only a occupancy to brim spaces it requires”

She replied “I feel if my body is getting soaked in this pleasure, this fantasy. I have let loose my vanity, my possession to become part of it.

He said “We are creatures of the sand, made out of mud and it is only inevitable we must return to it so to acknowledge its magnificence”

The wind started to bustle rapidly as waves rose from their depth. Few droplets poured onto the bodies and they knew that nature had summoned them into this ritual.

They cried in salvation, in melancholy and in freedom. The nostalgia of the past had been surpassed and what they could feel together was real, beautiful and Divine.

The Goddess of Earth has risen and so was her confession to arms of nature

The sun was beating persistently on the crackled walls of old buildings and melting bodies rambled on the streets like shining armors. There were many shapes and textures, all which were unique and expressive. In being silent they had so much to say and converse with each other. The unrealized connections in shaking hands, touching shoulders or meshing hips in clutter seemed trivial yet very powerful in different ways. However conditionality for such expression was of physicality. This notion of physicality was ceremonial in bodily experience.

As the evening gathered heat of the day onto its arms, in room littered with scattered paintings was he. Puff of smoke exhaled out of his dry lips decorated with his unkempt facial hair The paintings were of lower abdomens of different forms. However inappropriately the upper body halves were camouflaged with obscure figures of medieval dragons. The room was spacious enough for her to play rusty tunes on un-tuned acoustic guitar. She had slender fingers colored with black nail polish. The guitar pick was fixed in her middle finger and there was continuation between G Major and E Minor Chords. It was a liminal space of uncertainty yet there was resonance between her earthly tunes and his obscure imageries.

It was erotic, it was smooth. The bare navel flirted with the burning candles and warmth of the aroma poured into her sweat. She crawled into his veins, and he laced onto her sweat. The symphony began to play and dance of the crawling spider emulated in different moves and turns. He began to submit and shrink .The brittle veil began to disappear and images weaved lucid colors. Colors that were now beyond mystification. No more were tunes rusty no more was She a dragon of the medieval times. She was real and so was her emerging aroma.

“Strip me of this comfort, abstain me from this threshold, as I have no threshold to honor” He said

She smiled in admiration “I could muse in centuries over this stillness, stillness which shakes clouds and feeds rain with the surreal. I could dance in this silence, silence which shatters mountains and melts moments in submission”

Bodies have a conditioning of their Own, they can both create and emulate what they create. Darkness has a light of its own, it spins our imagination and allows us to appropriate what we consider as insensible and unintelligible.

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A Pack of Cigarettes and Me

A pack of cigarettes and me, smoky blues and me. A plague of desire, intoxication too many and me. Snowy depression; mountains of submission, a muddled city and me.
Morning lights flicker on wounds, Birds of anguishes chant around, seas of misgiving trudge on and me. Loneliness tamper beds of my shores, woeful images weave into my filthy plains. Distanced and so discontent a fragile ash burns in veins, denied and so defused a redundant world awaits and me.
A pack of cigarettes and me. Counting stars in murky skies, absorbing fears in gruesome nights, rambling thoughts in peaceful demise, I am an accepted victim without any acceptance on my part.
I hold neither confession nor voice, I am like a magnifying silence that doesn’t know its bounds, I am fluttering notion that aspires no destination no console, I am abandoned channel that holds no water, no blood, dry to feel any emotions I reap on buds of disbelief, I sweep onto to invisibility of my relief.
A pack of cigarettes and me, a dock of no refuge and me. Circles of life, covert miseries and me. A day full of dispossession and me, a sky full of contradictions and me.
It is only me, a clueless hermit among millions; it’s only me a pack of cards that tumbles in tragedy of awareness.
Tearing these papers, burning these words alive, expressionless and so repressed and me.
a mark left to ponder, a wall left to repaint and me. Fixed in deepened dis-harmonies, rigged in callous symphonies. A heart toils in vociferous winds, a pack of cigarettes, a generation mislead and me

Wools of Alienation

The thunder was echoing along the fragile windows and cloth was weaving languidly along the sewing machine. The wrinkles on her hand were stirring up as she pressed her slender fingers across the creamy yet fragile cloth. The rings on her hand emanated soothing melancholy which had survived in embarks of centuries.
The morns were growing and his gasping continued like rambling waters. Stomach was bloating and shrinking …absorbing tiny whimpers of the wind. The wrinkles on her hands were stirring up and shadows were creeping slowly onto yellow walls. The crease on the shadows was melting as sewing machine embraced tiny patches of the cloth.
Outside at the edge of thick woods was she walking hurriedly along muddy pathways. Her backpack was loaded with old books by Camus and Kafka. The hood was slightly encamped onto her shoulders and her partially exposed golden hair were bathing in the rain. The puddles were running like small tributaries. Flashes of thunder were resurrecting her pathway.
“Do you know where Mr. Thomas lives” she inquired in exhausted tone from a passing man.
He was a tall thin man dressed in black raincoat that was leaking pours of rain. She could barely see his face which was covered with his thick hat.
He leaned down and said “what a young lady like you are doing here in this weather”
She replied “Well I owe Mr. Thomas a favor and it is quite important I meet him now. He doesn’t have much time”
The man replied “well Mr. Thomas doesn’t like to meet anyone at this time and in any case no one has seen him since months”
She grew anxious and replied “Please take me there, it is quite urgent. I have travelled long miles just to meet him”
The man said “well so you wish. I am going that way and maybe you might want to follow me. The house is few blocks away at the end of next street”
The street was submerged in gloom and darkness. Rain was carrying their footsteps along. Noises of few barks were heard at a distance. Lights of few houses were flickering and shadows of some figures were rambling along silently.
“What favor do you owe Mr. Thomas” asked the man in curiosity
“Well that I can only tell Mr. Thomas, however it is myth of Sisyphus, a tale of hopelessness and despair that connect us. It is truth of that tale, gloom of self alienation that has brought me here” she replied
“Despair and hopelessness exhaust minds. They shadow our existence, submerge us in blankets of disguise. We carry smiling faces on streets, yet many volcanoes erupt and burst inside us” the man said with air of self reflection
“The strings of our soul are so fragile. Our heart beats are like wool that flutters onto stormy seas and wish for a needle to soak the pain inside.” She said
He pointed at the small cottage at their left and said “Here is your destination. Mr. Thomas must be asleep but you can try your luck”
“Thanks a lot for kindness, by the way how do you know Mr. Thomas” the girl inquired
“well I know him like wool knows the needle, like blood knows the veins. It is not the time to share in detail but we have swam often in the same storm” He said in a mysterious tone.
“Okay that is interesting, however what is your name and what….?”
Before she could complete the sentence he was gone. his footsteps disappeared in the gloom and she found herself staring at the cottage.
With a little hesitation she knocked on the wooden door, however there was no response. She tried few more times but soon realized that her guide was right.
As she was leaving she suddenly noticed that lower edges of the door was left ajar. She pushed it and small staircase opened in front of her.
The lights were dim and few shoes were lying in unkempt fashion on the rugged mat. She could barely see the floor but slowly trudged onto the steps of the staircase. She lumbered cautiously along the staircase. The noise of the sewing machine grew louder as she ascended upwards.
The room was half open. Fragile and fluffy wool was cluttered everywhere. Yellowish wall had turned pale red.
The bed was ridden with a corpse stitched in pale white cloth. The stomach was bloating and then shrinking. The ants were making hay in patches between the cloth.
The cracked mirror was turned upside down and was stained with marks of wrinkled hands.
The rain outside had stopped and thunder had resided into the clouds. She was there sitting next to dressing drawer in pale white gown. Her wrinkled hands were stained in red and rings were dancing on the floor.
She gazed at her, and smiled. The yellow tinge of her teeth was submerged in red.
“Now your favor has been returned, the epic of self alienation and despair, the tide has now settled, the tragedy has culminated. You must return”
The girl looked in shocked and gazed at the woman until she fainted
The morning was sunny, the skies were blue and her guide yesterday sat outside the cottage holding those old books. A passage from a book read
I have survived in self alienation, self denial, let my wounds find stitches of those strings
I have lumbered clueless in long nights, let my plight find salvation of those puddles
I have been deserted by my own mirrors, let my cracked images find pleasure in this tainted corpse

Waxed Dunes

 

Sweat was pouring down her face and was slowly settling onto her breasts. her dark naked skin was shinning like polished armor as softened dunes were emerging from the wax of the candle. she pined her black silky hair and uncovered her still warm flesh from the blanket that had not been washed since many months.

The night was still  fragile and particles of the air were suspended on the open window. Power had been out for a while now and flickering of the candle embraced wooden tiles of the room. In some corner shadows of few unkempt clothes linger out of half open cupboard. A cracked mirror with marks of lipstick posed in isolation on a wall

Water throttled down her throat as she  leaned her hands on to the window. Few blurring lights magnified the landscape outside. Noise of some footsteps and movements of shadowed figures illuminated at different intervals followed by magnifying silence.

Her dark naked skin was shinning like polished armor, dunes of the candle wax had now hardened. The essence of time had been curtailed and so was her longing for more. Yet she was ready to wait and  subside and let moments pass by her.

As she was starting to get lost in calm serenity of the night, the door started to knock. she now realized it was him. Quickly wrapping her bare body in the wrinkled blanket she lunged towards the door and rather tentatively opened the door.

His hairy chest was spread like entangled web over her dark and sweaty breasts. The candle was about to die and waxed dunes were now melting on the plate. The blanket was immersed  on the floor like usual and her flesh was slithering in curls of the bed sheet.

At intervals he would rise like a elephant and then swallow her deeply through his trunk, then he would let her out and quashed sweaty puddles on her body would sprinkle rain on his bearded face.

The ritual had continued without intervals for many months. They both were unknown to each other, conversations had never occurred but she was always ready to submit to his craving for more of the same.