Of late she is coming way too much,
through my windows…through my walls…through my roofs…
She is not keeping me in cages but she is making me the locks of them,
I am not in liberation even when she wants me to be.
If I close my windows then she is writing names on my window panes,
names of people who died being in love with her…
But she only keeps her tongue for me, the tongue that becomes pierced once she licks my tortured balls…
the other parts are way too infinite to be plucked by me.
Those wet hairs are casted all along the streets and avenues of our pampered city,
you can touch that saffron waves but you can’t feel the generosity in that.

Nowadays when she comes I also bring my yellow pages and write names…
names of those who buy cigarettes from their pasts.
If you can, you will get bunches of names from this poem also.
But there’s something which I always see… perhaps the concept of taking emotions through your heart has always been overrated, your heart can’t do shits…
It’s all about your brain…and when someone audacious like her unhook her buttons through the starry evolvement of her cleavage,
your brain dare to be a little more maniac…a little more drunk in obsession.
And do you know what’s the difference between being obsessed for love and being obsessed for truth?
Well, genetic aristocracy.

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Photograph: BBC Natural History.