To D-Who also turned out to be an asshole

I thought I was healed

I thought we were sealed

You crept into my dream

Ripped me apart at every seam

I think of your conniving head

Making me fight your wars

And the monsters under your bed

I squirm in protest

Wanting no thoughts of you

All I feel for you now is detest

You were a farce and it is true

I undressed for you

Unashamed of the world

I believed your lies

I shed for your indifferent eyes

It is exactly a year

Now I am here

Hate in my gasp

Bane in your clasp

I hope you come a full circle

I hope nothing good for you

I hope there will be a miracle

I hope I will be renewed

The Wedding Planner-Her big day is his big problem

I want blacks and I want gold

I want a drunken audience

Of penitent Misogynists who are 37 years old

I want chrome lighting and wispy lace tablecloth

Love to loom between my maids and the groomsmen

Like naked flame and a moth

I want Clapton to allure me to my first dance

I want gluttonous orgasms in the dining halls.

I want it all, a fairytale and a romance

I want hook ups to brew in the washroom stalls

I want people to make merry

And tell me they are having a good time

I want the alcohol to overflow

All of whiskey and vodka with a splinter of lime

I want my father to smile when teary eyed

Smart in a tuxedo with a glass in one hand

Telling his friends how much he loves this bride

My maid of honor she is the one, incontestably.

Stood by me through the thick and thin of my garter

We would have spent hours picking the centerpieces

Threatening the tailor and his sartor.

I do not know yet if it is the marriage that I seek

Not even the companion or soul mate as much

It is my friend, the wedding that enchants me

Call me an idiot or even an unassuming freak

Where the fuck on earth are you??

To Ayesha-Who inspired this poetry, it may seem like an excerpt from her online ramblings...but what to do?birds of the same feather....

I’ve met the asshole

Also the one who would cajole

Shacked up with the one who is aloof

Met the man who thought my love had no proof

Been the second fiddle

His sneers were really a riddle

There was the sweet talker, the drunken fucker

Also the one who would pull his face into an ugly pucker.

I looked for you in all of them

You were there in bits and parts

I looked for you

Each time slicing a piece of my heart

Show up you son of a bitch

Before I have only a sliver of love left

Before I become crazy cat lady

Or a snickering old witch

I tell myself I am a feminist

Not bra burning enough

Turn up sooner you dickhead

And call my silly bluff

Ive waited and talked about you

Ive missed you when drunk

I know you are perfect

And I picture you to be a hunk

I sit here and you are wasting time

As I waste my good years

For you making a rhyme.

Of Black panties and Sapphire cufflinks

I have spent several hours in the last year watching my boss haggle over a few hundred thousand dollars as I chewed at the tip of my pen, eyed the Russian Geologist and wondered with a sigh if I have masked my curiosity well.

I have walked into plush offices and shook hands with the stalwarts of this industry. Who do not, after years of experience realize am all talk no cock kind of person. We have spread charts of seismic data supporting Palynofacies analysis on a table over a rainy day and contemplated the Bitumen content of the yielding oil. Never once have they noticed my mind stray to a different kind of spreading after shoving all papers from the table aside.

I get dressed each morning, gawking at the mirror every single time and wondering if I have concealed my lust well. If there are traces of any lace peeking through the crisp cottons and polyesters.

I am now used to being the only woman in a 200 man ‘bored’room. Not an eyebrow is raised nor a question. They would send me an official email from a different country while working late with a slight vulnerable undertone. They copy me with a 100 other men and address the emails as Gents and Miss A with a smiley Over a few drinks, they would call me sweetheart in a foreign language that I know. They protect me with ferocity when hit on by a random at a bar. They would touch my arm and whisper in my ears on a night when it has not drizzled enough but the Bar has no place to breathe.

However, I am not the one they want to go home to. I am not the one whose education they sponsor and buy pink dead bunnies for. I wear pants. I am their equal. They might look me up and down when I walk into the room at a staff party wearing chandeliers in my ears and 2-inch heels to show my legs off. They might even picture me without it and leer at me with a knowing smile. However, that is the end of it. I get a lift home and a “good night honey” and on an indiscriminate unwelcome occasion, a pass is made.

In college, I had dreamed of traversing the Himalayan Transect with a knapsack and an energy bar, of living in drab tees on rigsite where the halogen lights burned my skin. I do not remember the transition from Coveralls to Leather shoes happening at all. Mr.Jack Daniels was not a part of my plan. Although Now he is an inherent element of my lonesome evenings spent at picturesque locations with Chrome lighting and Maître Ds.

It feels good to be a part of the corporate scene in this Industry. To be monitoring Mother Earth to cough up enough barrels to grease the motor that runs this world. It does feel good to be updated on a 100 orange collars working relentlessly to devoid the continental shelves of Oil.

P.S I am not complaining at all.

A Dame The Knight made her...

You dear sir, you, who demand a piece of my heart shall not win it with such ease. You sir will woo me into the realms of a world where I am your queen and you are dysfunctional in my absence. You will prove to me that it is not glories you seek on this battlefield of life, but your willingness to give them up for me. A gallant ambitious man nay hard to find, but it is a man who will put me on a pedestal that is.

You should try and not chomp on the veal chop at the dinner table were we sit or leave the fine cutlery I pick, unappreciated. The golds, the mauves, and the lilacs have a reason they are the hue of our life. I want a royally magnificent life and I fancy a chair with thin rods for a backrest. I desire the ease of calling the blacksmith and carpenters at the snap of my fingers. I want them to saw and mould a world where we can enjoy our love in comfort. You would know I like flowers best to be potted and not dead in a vase. Nevertheless, my Good Sire you will send me a bunch of geraniums interspersed with Bougainvillea. You, my lord will have maidens await me with a hand towel to wipe my face and one to slip shoes on to my wan feet.

I will await you every night in our chambers to smother you with love and to knead your drawn muscles as the ochre light compliments the purple sheets that are entangled between our legs. However, you should presume that it is me who needs your body to plaster itself against mine as I have spent the whole day tiring myself out to make our abode a better place.

I will sit by the window my Knight, waiting for you to ride in gallantly after that long journey you have had. I would have dismissed the Servants to their Quarters, lit the house up in candles, fired up the hearth, and lay out a spread of the best meats in town.  However, I want you to think of this as more tedious than all the wars you have fought outside before returning to my arms.

I ask naught for a 100 Florins of Gold and Silver or a hundred yards of the choicest velvet, all I ask of you is to deal with the fact that I might not be a woman who powders her nose every hour or embellish my hairclip with tiny sparkly stones. But I am high maintenance of a unusual variety and thou shalt want to enjoy maintaining my whims and fancies my lord.

Slithering to let go...

She hissed from her lairs. Her Sinewy luminescent eyes had a glair that could smolder what her fiery breath could not. She moved with the sinuosity of the Rhine, engulfing the darkness that swathed her. She growled and yowled at anything that moved beyond her trapdoor.

She was wounded. The scars oozed a mixture of blood and deceit. She clanked her rusty shackles every time they slid the food in. There was no difference whether her eyes were open or shut. There was an outburst of the omnipresent warm tears of pain always.

Days rounded up into weeks and weeks into months. T

The wounds still hadn’t healed. Nevertheless, they were there. The scabs were misunderstood for poisonous encrustations. She was untouchable, unspeakable of; she was a revolting thought to all of them who stood outside her cell and heard her snarls subdue into whimpers.

At sunset, she sat by her wee window one evening, Shame faced at her stark nakedness that had cloaked her for months now. She seethed and fumed like a Strombolian. She decided that she had to chip the shackles off. One molecule after another. She did. She did so splendidly. The soft voices on the outside soon diminished into pointless whispers. The scabs fell off. The sun had set but she saw the light. She glided laconically into freedom. The snap of the bondage was terse and brusque enough to break her heart into a million shrapnel. There was one last howl that ended her labor. She was born again. She crept out like the serpent that had gotten her there in the first place. That was her last moment in her reptilian form….She was renewed again...She was healed now…

To C who turned out be an A-Hole

You left a purple bruise on me. The one only I could see in the shame faced confines of my blue tiled bathroom as the icy needles of water hit my head, spiraled down my tresses, and mingled with all other waste and into the sewers of this city.

I had stirred in me the emotions that I had locked into one corner of my bludgeoned heart before I met you on that fateful day.

I had assumed you were my long lost serendipity. I looked at the happy couples swarming the streets by the sea and thought we were one of them. Holding hands as the sun pierced through our sunglasses.

You turned out to be a con artist of the strangest variety. You proofread your act before performing at my theatre. You enunciated, dramatized, and romanticized your emotions that a hardhearted slut like me bought every bit of it.

I am ashamed of having acquainted myself with you. To have let your tongue slide into my ears and coherently lie to me. To let you kiss my cheek a 1000 times before a million betrayals. To have let you fuse your full mouth with my forehead in a liaison of deceit. Espionage it was. You are as pure as the driven snow and I still might have pangs of attraction mingling with hateful venom for you every time you text me something sassy.

I think of your grin, as lopsided as your intentions and your torso that stood two heads taller than I did on that sunny day. It rams me into beliefs like “All good looking rich men are a farce like you’’

I probably misjudged you. Did not see through my rose tinted glasses that you were looking for a torrid affair while I dreamt of fixing you eggs Benedict on a slothful Sunday.

I probably should have believed my gut instinct and known you were a callous bastard.

Your Cheating Heart

I can picture you my Paolo

With another woman in your arms

Sitting at the edge of the bed in a room overlooking the River

You left her swooning with all your charm

I can picture you my Paolo

As the night clandestinely sets in

The velvet curtains drawn

Strong is the tang of your sin

Your face flashes in my mind my Paolo

As your words wilt in this summer breeze

Your words! Oh! Your words

They’ve now left my warm heart in an eternal freeze

You sashayed with her along the canals

Looking over your shoulder

That mystique shadow was indeed mine

The lurking Shawl I thought you’d recognize

As you crossed every line

In retrospect...

There was a text. The screen burped light that it pilfered from the morning sun. I lay in my glorified laziness, non-chalant, unaffected. I thought of his midnight texts; little ‘post its’ quoting Tennyson that he’d leave on my study. Messages on tissues he’d leave stuck between the milk cartons in the refrigerator for me to find when I woke after a night of passion as he’d already have slipped out. My legs were arched up on the wall moving like the ticking clock showing how many months had passed by.

When I was young, my bar was up and raised in the air like my nose…good sense of humor, suave, loving, understanding…the list would go on. Now all that was out of the window…I’ve come to the realization that men are just ego-testicle fools. Now my new list is as undemanding as-just two animals-jaguar in the garage and tiger in bed.

It’s simple when your head gets a grip of your reasoning. The question why is never unanswered, never a question at all. You can respond to that text as you sit at a sports bar and revel with a few friends and have a drunken karaoke while watching 11 Indian men who rise no taller than 5 feet 10 inches scamper with a ball in hand…

Yes; there are in the backward past

Soft hours to which we turn —

Hours which, at distance, mildly shine,

                                                            Shine on, but never burn

The four walls I call my recluse...

You are an outsider here.

However close you are to me.

You can leaf through my books, the ones I’ve collected with the pace of water filling an earthen pot on a sultry afternoon, one drop after another. You can indulge in them, in boonyi’s smuttiness or you can let the hungry tide devour you with all its literal might. You can let Rand educate you and Orwell bring you the realms of a farfetched reality. But you can’t gain from them what I have, you can’t indulge in the acumen I did.

The reds and purples and beiges sooth me, you can’t tell me they are not coordinated.

You can stare at the maps and brochures I’ve stuck on my wooden door. Deeply mahogany in shade alone. You can trace with your fingers along the route on which we trickled along the

Kwinana Highway

at the speed of a 120 kmph.you can gawk at Merlion watching over me. But dare you hope to be a part of it. Not on my Mahogany shaded door.

You can ask me what that little wooden box is doing against the window. I will tell you with all pride how I inherited this teak-wonder from my grandmother. I will tell you all about her waxy smooth hairless skin. I will tell you how she came from one of the most well known families. But when I wonder why she died so young, why she was as polite and wise as she was…I would do so alone.

The ceiling is mine to stare at, when the fan moves as fast as it can in the summers, when there are droplets of sweat running down my neck and the mattress has taken a beating because I’ve lain there too long reading a book.

You can look at every little sheet of paper funky magnets hold on my almirah, Menu cards from pubs, farewell greetings, birthday messages, all of them…but you would never gauge the pains and pleasures each have caused me.

You can look at the figurines I’ve put on a tiny wooden shelf that I painted in bizarre hot pinks and chocolate browns. But you wouldn’t know how painfully I’ve collected each one of them. The tribal Javanese families from the Museums of Jakarta, when I bargained my heart out on a scorching afternoon. The wrought iron giraffe done to detail from the evenings markets of Fremantle that made me chose between it and an opal ring set in sterling silver. I had to count my last penny to get home after I’d indulged in a jar of olives, a bottle of red and a local white man playing the tambourine. A tiny brass shoe with intricate etching from Nainital.When confronted about why I bought an ashtray, I had to feign surprise. There is that wedding souvenir I got from a Sumatran wedding I attended. How enthralled I was to be a foreigner absorbing each custom and how touched I was when I was thought worthy of attending Magdha’s Wedding ceremony.Oh Maghda, how beautiful she looked and radiant.

You can only look at these things and hope you were a part of my stories. This is my stage my little wonderland. I lie here at night all by myself; I might send you a gullible text and tell you that I missed you. I might wake up in the morning calculating the time difference between our zones and wonder if you’ve had lunch. But you will not know of it. Because my heart leaves the sleeve when I leave my sanctuary.

To L who made a whore out of her over the weekend!

There were those sparks, orange and luminescent, that could’ve set the room on fire on that wintry night atop a hill were even bushfires weren’t common!

The smell of funk hung heavily in the air, dissipating her fruitiness and his muskiness. His fingers traced every contour of her body that was intertwining into his at a relishing pace.

She thought to herself how she was secure of being the perfect forgery of a loving woman since the time she had torn her heart out and broken it into a million pieces and flung it into a bottomless chasm long ago.

He stifled her groans as he explored the crevasses of her cunt and made her writhe irrepressibly. She impeded and swallowed all the sweet nothings that she wanted to fling at him. They weren’t in the confines of a secure womb after all. He on the other hand incorrigibly made his way into her ears leaving her swooning.

The next morning, he slid in next to her again as she lay coiled in a mystifying question mark. The sheets fashioned in a labyrinth of simplicity that complicated their state of mind…

She got home late that evening, still weak in the knees and with no control over her limbs. She sat humming to herself as she cut out photographs to hang up on her red and purple walls. They came from her tiny box that lay hidden from the world…pictures of places she wanted to visit, trips she had taken-alone and unfettered, handwritten scraps of paper that bondaged her thoughts on them eternally. She turned to her wooden box so often…each time she had something to add to it…this time it was the memory of a weekend that might quiver off, that might be the background hum of drunken conversations she’d have with her girlfriends weeks later…

L will always remain L in those conversations; he would stay a nameless entity, a draft of wind that wafted past her and put a smile on her face.

Transition-ation

They sat by the bar overlooking the harbor, watching the yachts dot the horizon in tiny flickers of hope for a future they both knew they didn’t trust.

They ate in silence as her time to leave had come already. She wore a white cashmere trench coat that she borrowed from one of the girls at work. Her hair swept in a demure bun, the stars twinkled in hope and the moon looked a tad bit somber that night.

He took her to a stand up comedy show down the road which was close to the pub with a fireplace. Her laughter was a cackle, like wood in flames, he often pointed was One of his favorite things about her. She cackled so much there were tears in her eyes by the end of it.

 They held hands and threw their arms around each other as they sauntered along the cobblestone pavements. She thought how it could never be better than this.

He held her face and kissed her by the fireplace, their souls melting into one another. He topped her Baileys with milk and joked about how she was too young to drink.

Today that seems like a faraway memory after he broke her heart over trivial things.

She knew it was not the happy ending for her. She knew all along. Denial is a beautiful thing she’s say with a bitter laugh and a half smoked cigarette dangling precariously from her mouth.Her hair dishevelled and her clothes a tad bit drab as the evening sky brought her the company of her best girl friends and a bottle of Wine.

 But she knows it will get better than that someday. she knew that was not the ending, nor a milestone.It was something that passed by her,like a whiff of wind that wafts past you as the winter lies to you and promises to stay on forever.But the summers set in eventually,sweltering and wearing down the toxins in your heart in magnanimous sized beads.

there will be another...there will be another...