Weddings in Colombo

Like a ‘Nidikumba’, the touch-me-nots,
That turn to sleep on touch,

Bride and groom, they sleep with each other,
The nuptials in church, just a façade,

A legitimate institution to making babies.
How out-of-wedlock is an embargo,

For making little bundles of joy. No woman
Wants to balloon out without gold

Orbiting the ring finger. Marriage here in Colombo,
Is just to get a ticket to making babies.
And they go on, on the marriage bed,
The well-oiled bodies they are,

Practicing the skillful art of making love,
Now with a piece of paper backing them,

No longer inside sleazy motel rooms,
Or parked cars, only inside a beautiful home.

Orgasms were just those screamers,
Those supernovas, of the courtship years.

They go on, the pill, a forgone tradition,
And love, just a game of strategy

To checkmate an egg, make a hole
For a tadpole to squeeze in.

And they huff and puff until
A little stream goes down a little grotto.

The love doctor says,
An apple a day is good for you,

When it is that time of the month.
Ovulation is just plain Humpty Dumpty.

How easy it is to forget everything else
When you’re in the baby zone.

The third wheel, the crowd, the triangle,
Two people aspire to, and more importantly,

The bastard, he or she is not.



A Pervert’s World

I think of all the perverts in a private bus,
The hormone charged teenager,

The prowling middle-aged man,
And throngs of beautiful women,

Whose bottoms, they conglomerate too.
Like those dogs fed by old aunties,

That come running, their tails wagging,
To taste a bowl of leftover rice,

Their tongues frothing in saliva.
How trivialized perversion has become;

The dogs, men are, in bitch patrol,
A boneless boner that makes,

Silent music beneath a zipper,
The ticket for a journey from here to there.

The bitch, a woman becomes, to
The queasiness of torrential desire.

And some people they empathize,
With these mad perverts, that loiter,

A wetness like that of the monsoons.
In a bus, a woman moves away, sensing the stranger,
Still the crowded bus is a hard turf,
To maneuver and squeeze through.

What a pest, a mouse is, inside a crowded bus,
In an uncomfortable and unwanted caress.

A woman who is too scared to turn around,
Feeling him probing, as he goes on,

In his own twisted way, it is love,
Just like how “beach” is pronounced “bitch”.

He calls “love”, “Elaw”, in his broken English,
And the bus is his love shack,

A pervert’s world of arousing the dog in him,
And the plight of a beautiful woman,

Who wishes so much,
She had giant squid eyes on her back.



A Three Wheeler (The Tuk Tuk)

The racket, the noise, of a cacophonous engine,
And a small space inside a tuk-tuk,
Where most things can happen.

Enough room to hold hands,
Or for a lunging kiss, a lesson in French,
Or even, first and second base,
A touch, a squeeze or a lap dance.
And sometimes, much more.

A reminder that just like under an umbrella
Many things do happen, on the back seat
Of an auto-rickshaw. How man and woman,
Make space-less fittings of their anatomies,
How thrilling it is, to be on the back seat,
Styling ourselves as dogs always do,

The beauty of a ravishing sunset near a beach,
Eclipsed by the song of our interfaced bodies.
Corporeal proof that we don’t need
A hotel room to be lovers.
Two people making beautiful love,

Learning, how absolutely dog-friendly,
The back seat of a rickshaw is.

Claustrophilia of flesh,
Two faces lighting up like the full moon,
And still strangers in physiognomy.
How close we were, the warmth of a rickshaw,
A free-ride to the other side,
To the afterlife of ecstasy,
As we drift to a world of beautiful percussion,
How we become balance-freaks
Letting a machine quake on three wheels,
Like an egg about to hatch.

How full of life we are,
The shells we come out of, when we make love,
In a world that gifts experience,
To those who conquer, the coward’s spine,
And jump onto a small space,
To where dogs become
Their own palindromes. Their own Gods.

And love was, just like a tuk-tuk,
Barely there in balance, and still a thrilling ride,
Through the traffic of a narrow alleyway,
A road that you enter and exit,

And a screaming engine,
Exulting that exact moment, you feel
A mammoth whale climbing out of your body.

An obese mammal. A sperm whale.



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