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Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
When it strips you to your barebones,
you will see it was never about the strapping haberdashery, my Puppelé.
When it pushes you to the face of bare winter,
and the leaves go quiet against the presence of prey in a deep forest,
the hull of your boat will rot, and only your faith will hold it together.
Nature learns from her mistakes, and daughters are born from them.
And daughters repair the nuclear charisma their fathers brought home to them.
When it tickles your funny bone, you will laugh at the irony.
Them oxymorons walk about, waiting to hear their names in the mouths of the hoity-toity.
One of them hears a clink of a teacup, hoping for his name to be traced within its noise.
It was never about the strapping haberdashery, my Puppelé.
My sky has rocketed into a million fireworks from his smile.
Wet kittens have turned sweet in the mist of his presence.
Most times, all you have to do is turn up.
Forget the scanty politics your mother birthed you into.
The familial gossip, the green eyes, the lies and their friends.
It will strip you to your barebones, and then you might have to bite.
You might have to collect the shards of your broken glasses, see a little straighter.
You might have to pounce.
It was never about the strapping haberdashery, my Puppelé.
You will see.
I'm stuck between a seraphim and a fiend.
I feel like shit,
but I ain't looked better.
Perhaps insomnia is my way of telling God I'm playing him directly.
I've tallied my scotches.
I'm on my 4th.
I stole one from my favourite, middle-aged, Brit idiot.
God, I'm speaking to you directly.
How much longer?
God, don't smile at me like that.
You make me want to own a cock.
God, mush my peas.
I don't like the way you look at me.
Yahweh is the creator but his mediums are scoring flesh.
Talitha Koum, you say.
Tally the wounds I've earned against the bees.
Lanterns light up a cave like a wild animal's eyes.
Hyenas with a glint,
They laugh at my head against a flintstone.
Monuments, where the world comes to them.
Never travel far.
But they travel through their visitors,
Like Sheila at the deep end of Burry Street.
My connecting dot is the nib of my pen.
You best believe I woke up and my belly hurt.
Winding stretched me thin.
Knocking on burrow’s corner smacked the willy-nilly saliva out of my spat mouth.
It is winter, and my breasts are in Chicago.
For dessert, breakfast and biscuits.
I woke up the next morn on the side of the local garden’s chair.
My hair went missing.
I did a double take to realise it was by my left elbow this entire while.
I did a funny little dance on my way to Marlboro Counter,
then asked Mr. Fritz for the last of his lady bits and maple jizz.
4 pence, well damn I had 5.
Left with 2 in my pocket.
I woke up in a quiet corner of my bed the next morn.
Snatched myself out of bed.
Washing my face under brittly cold water smacked the sleepiness out of my rosy feet.
It is Autumn, and my waist is cold.
For breakfast, grits and fiddlesticks.
My hair sat nicely on my breasts,
stray of which tickled my nape each bounce I did on the way to the port.
I asked Mrs. Fritz for a present.
She shot me down, bang bang.
9 pence, in my right breast pocket, both bullets caught by them.
A pterodactyl punched me, and then I woke up.
My tonic feels like it’ll get me piss drunk.
I’ll have a night cap and a frigid horror to wear on my shoulders tonight,
as my ghosts check their reflections on the hubcaps of broken down vehicles.
What is this but an orgasm of hellish beauty, infinite and blindsighted?
My nightmares wake me into more nightmares.
I am afraid as my fingers shake at the end of jaded joints.
At least my pillow is cold and I got God to put under it.
The timetable is rigged. Yeh hairaani mujhse judi kyun?
God gifted me patience and tested me with expired licences.
I could grab life by the testes and force pension out of him.
He made a wife of me and I dangled my wispy eyelashes under his knees.
He looked down at me. “Silly girl”, he smirked.
I washed my tonic down with the lower end of his hips.
God knows I gab about my faith, while I play with my chain.
He plays with it too. No, not God. God isn’t my goon.
He understands the shades I prefer my lips in.
With the others, gosh, the others.
If I accidentally ingest a dustmite as I nourish a slice of cake with my saliva,
My bed is mine. My bed is mine!
The big sleep, God knows I love The Big Sleep.
I await it under warm light.
Coming back to the topic at hand,
My water feels like it’ll get me piss drunk.
Tonight I will be shaped like a mere maid.
Tonight, the soldiers call for me.
God is graceful and kind, alright.
God isn’t my goon. God is my patient witness under the moonlight.
God is the tightener of my pigtails.
God sings me shanties, and we suckle on each other.
God has me by the water tracing my pink toenails.
God caresses me with patience and pride.
I am God’s good, good girl.
My water is tasting quite wonderful at the moment.
Licks of the flicks of his wrist are caught on the deep end of last evening’s tryst.
I cannot recall a time that he hasn't cast a dawn upon me.
I cannot recall a time that he hasn't stretched my timbre over his shoulder.
My words are strained
yet they pour like topical soil.
Twisted words got me making follies with dollies down 7th Street.
Tweetle dee and tweetle dum dum both have their thimbled thumbs in the mouth of the busy.
This is the hood of the peach fuzz and skimpy physique.
This is the morn of the feast I'm called bitch at.
These is the geese that naped my fame.
I have them dizzy atlases and fiddled fabrics at the neck of my name.
This is no ordinary game where Push pulls up to outpill Shove.
Where whipped cream is my smoking gun.
This is the finesse that exists in the dandruff of that skank Mistress' hair.
A loose louse that wanders down the streets of broken champagne bottles, dirty downers and dippy melodies.
Cherokee, his jacket that heavy edged me.
Malarky, the quiet throat that wants to edge me.
Heavenly, the man that makes me jelly.
Andale, tch tch, he's merry and done wet me.
When the dragon's mist is blown across my navel, I shall become aware of my kin.
I speak as if I live under the spay of God's eye,
when in fact, the tedious of my erect spine wishes to be nuzzled.
These moments like fleeting laughter, have been tainted by the faint aura of a firework.
In other news, the bewilderment of my animal counterpart has captured my curly hair.
I am experiencing Rapture.
I got blood curdling in my mouth, frothing, walkin' down the weeble wobble at 444 Check Street.
Humphrey said I don't need no man. Rid myself of the mo I must.
Pink drillers pressing prissy styles of sickle have my mind mangled and shredded to shackled silks.
Breathin' out my sinuses.
Cut fingers for dinner, I'm washing my eyelashes.
The stench of piglets, the grimace has me searching for style issues.
I milked these maggots and called them midgets,
now my hair is black and I got knee high stitches.
I said no to these gadgets, I won me more gashes,
I won me a lottery and tied it to sashes.
I whipped up a story and saved it some soup,
I need my body anointed, I'm tapered by Humphrey's gobbledygook.
The "I" in my eye, the big apple of my eye,
the parrots are wearing frocks, how lazily at that.
I am tired, tits titillated, tackled by sky-high conglomerates,
I am frothing down 444 Check Street.
Ai ai ai, these King Gizzards have me rolling down a fine line,
Mangled strings silly are shivering my timbers allegorically,
they’re echolocating my hips across a dizzy city.
Ai ai ai, they’ve got Cherokee feet and ready meat,
Daddy can daddy could mark his territory.
The art of his woven wool and act of his brooding shrew,
are all entangled in lazy lanky stew.
Is this a children’s book, or adult film Narnia,
none would know for daddy long legs has me covered,
like the 8 of swords, and fancy haberdashery,
his finest wool on my skin is slash daggery.
If I had him in a room squared, I’d throw arrows at my mirror,
play his 808s across the room, serve him heartbreak over food.
He creeps and crawls and this feels like a Dr. Seuss story,
I’m miming words like I’m the mannequin of Shibari,
He blindfolds me under the teeth of a mallard’s malady,
M’lady he says, under my scabby lash iron knee.
For as long as Lady's Bitch exists and vomits mutton every night.
For as long as raunchy comedy is a puzzle every night.
For as long as goons grind tea leaves with death every night.
It is stupor, booze, and hieroglyph.
For as long as the froth on my tongue is bibbed and boxed.
For as long as I loosen meaning from the nape of my inner knee.
For as long as a pea, in my sleep, lies under me.
It is stupor, booze, and hieroglyph.
For as long as there is semen on a page of poetry.
For as long as my head cooks in an oven.
For as long as the Witches churn my drinks.
It is stupor, booze, and hieroglyph.
© 2024 Anushka Devaprakash
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