Primal - The Fireworks

Over millennia,
the wild waters of the river
have carved their path
through the rusty landscape.
The winds howl endlessly
in the majestic halls of the canyon.
The grinding plates
beneath the surface
murmur the tales
of old earth, of a lost civilization,
of a glacier calving into the sea.

Hidden
in the gorges of the great river
is a cavern,
a virginial space,
a temple of atonement
for the geological transgressions.
Enveloped in a mystic blue haze,
unkissed by the sun, untouched by breeze,
unbothered by the operatic magnificence in the valleys, 
the shrine echoes the sound of dripping water, 
the tapping, an ode to poetic stillness. 

At the other end of the theatre
it’s the monsoon downpour.
Fireworks burst in the sky.

It's been five years.
She thought it was unrequited,
he thought it was platonic,
until this moment.
They are stuck in the evening rush hour.
Ten minutes ago
he put his hand on her thigh.
She froze,
he didn't flinch.
She knows it’s not casual,
he doesn't explain,
There's absolute silence in the car.
She hasn't moved
in what feels like eternity.
Glittering pixels of red light
dance on splattered drops
crawling down the windshield.
She doesn’t turn on the wiper.
The dissolving landscapes on the glass
and the fluidity of the moment
remind her of Monet’s waterlilies.
His grip tightens,
the mercury rises.
She suddenly comes to her senses,
startled by the cacophony
of thunder, expletives, blaring horns,
and the drumbeat of raindrops
on the metal roof.
 
Hidden
in the gorges of her wild spirit,
restraint unravels
in the grip of an all-consuming suspense.

Primal - The Hunt

The forepaw
lands softly on the wet ground.
The crackle
echoes through hushed corners.
Her ears twitch,
the muscles in her legs tighten.
The monkeys holler like wailing widows,
a thousand wings take flight.
The crickets, like awed spectators, hush each other,
a lone scorpion
scurries into the decaying mulch.
 
The teeth sink deeper
into her pulsing throat.
Warm blood gushes
and splatters
over the striped coat.
Her bright eyes
hold the frozen wonder
of a starlit night.
 
The bleating is silenced
in the bellows and hollows
of a ravenous,
all-consuming hunger.

Primal – Longing

Every atom
of her existence
hits me like cocaine dust.

I wait
with bated breath
for the return
of summer birds,
for a glimpse
of her shadow
in the warm ocean breeze,
for the answer
veiled behind her quiet hayā.
 
Sometimes,
I wait for her
in the marketplace,
oblivious
to haggles and cackles,
and even to the scent
of ripe mangoes and pineapples.

When I’m alone,
just me and my thoughts,
I would savour her,
one fantasy at a time.
When greed takes over,
the overwhelming rush
drives me to the edge—
to swallow her whole.
 
The mind wanders
like a restless spirit,
like a stealthy big cat
in deep forest cover
eager to pounce hungrily
on the object
of the most intense,
all-consuming desire.

a mouthful of sky

it doesn’t matter anymore
i listen to him
and it doesn’t matter
if his stories are real
i listen to him keenly
wide-eyed
tightly grasping his hand
like i want to kiss him madly
between those empty words
and stolen moments
on a crowded beach

sometimes
basking in the stillness
of a sunday morning
or sailing through the scary stillness
of a saturday evening
i tell stories to myself
it doesn’t matter anymore
if the stories are real
if my stories are real