Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "writerly"

At the rumor of my touch that is the press of my lips to your closed eyelids, your eyes flutter open. And you look at me. Observe OK, so participate now. Your first act as a sovereign, you undress me with your awakened gaze. You look right at me, right through me, to see all of me. You look right down to my core, flaring up the thousand dying suns stroking me without laying a single svelte finger on me while engorging me and raising my gorge for your softness. You have been placid and a bit off but now, oh oh now you look like you are ready to cuddle with a tiger, or maybe you are a tiger and you want me to cuddle with you. You looking at me, is further emboldening my need for you.

Then you chose to give me tinniest of nods as if your permission means anything now, like it matters by now. You make your move, flipping the game upside down, chucking away the norm, the expected, the safe, and kiss both sides of my face, but you fall short, so very short, of kissing my mouth, separating me to make that final gesture to seal both our bodies together, we were already fillips of each other’s faith. But to bring our faces together and the kissing of the mouths you leave that to me. To kiss your mouth. That is my pleasure, my right your gift to me and my curse. To kiss you my only job, the sole occupation of my mind- and you moaning my name my only payment. I know how to kiss and you know how to moan, all the songs our lips together will bring out, songs pure enough to move the sea to tears and it will cry its own ocean at the unattainable simplicity of us.

Or is the sea bemoaning the finality of us?

You kiss my check and your voice explodes somewhere behind me.

We can, yes. We may.

In a bare room dusty with longings, she pulled a hard chair made of oak and thistle in the middle of her space, making him sit down on it, the ungraceful chair trembling with their mingled thoughts.

She moved down his arms, firmly setting them by his sides that became warm by her resentment.

She tied a glistening lobster bib around his neck, her movements made slender by her fingertips.

Then she fed him his own words, one by one spooning them in, poisoning him slowly.

Words he was crazy enough to give her in their quiet moments. The truth was, he had only given her his words simply because she had asked him.

Next, she tossed, upturned and then upended an entire barbecue sauce (her own recipe) bottle, pouring all of it on his face, his mouth parting open in protest.

She watched it go all the way down his throat.

He wasn't pinned, he could move. He didn't, neither did she.

He drank deeply, drinking it all in, he swallowed.

Then they both burned. But for different reasons.

Of Beren and Lúthien, definitely, for sure, for now. Not of Sarah and Phoenix though, not yet anyway, hold the line anyhow. Sylvia Plath. Long, dark, Longer Halloween unfurling all at once and wrapping itself around us like a worn-out but warm overcoat, round and round going around us like an entity on its own, encircling around them, encompassing, engulfing us in its cloth of starry black blackness. Still, it is still better than the entity nestling at the edge of that night, an entity of its own, in the corner of the black hole, stranded and all alone, but still demanding the nothingness around it to worship it, a beginning, nascent, an understanding of love; an origin of horror, true evil, deluded love but selfless, making us all further more lost, lost and delirious, quite. The gall of that Thing is so much more appalling and ludicrous than the notion, the very idea of being here, stranded on this rock, a brittle pall of smoke is the drollest joke. All alone and by its lovelorn, lonesome, self-loathing self, melded by thoughts, surrounded by all this emptiness and still asking the remaining nothingness to lie in prostration, to lie, prostate it. An utterly ridiculous litany, so stupid, so much more than her. Her and the Lemons She ate. Though she was used to drinking in the moonlight while protesting it tasted like my name. The audacity of demanding such a thing, urging a fealty to the dying stars, when there is only you, where there is only you. Solitary and in solitude, despite the designs still choosing to be alone by design, opting for that wet darkness, deciding to remain there in a liquefying darkness liquefying in darkness. In spite of having an option of twisting your own faith in a fickle twist of fate. And what of the whimsical, you say. What of them? Those earthen soldiers of dirt and dust, of earth and of clay, staying not there, straying not far from here. Distanced by time and twisted by history, those distorted monsters, time and history and a bit of salt of memory had turned them into heroes, time and history made them that, what they were not, heroes that is. They weren't heroes. They were savages. They are still savages. A little human savagery. All of us are not there, we are all inherently savage and yet we blame what is not there. Rightfully so. Why hold that false light responsible, what kind of fakery is that, why hold the ranks. Speaking of those fallen heroes, it's just as well, for the defeat of heroes is the only thing her palate can handle these days, the humiliations of the unneeded are the only palatable viands to eat around here, which is nowhere. Why you need to know the savagery behind her savage smile, the reason of it, the reason for it, why must you need to know that, though this is the season for it. It is Saturday, so she can easily fly the black sails, prettily so and she can fix the midnight. But though she can fly the black sails and fix the silence of the midnight, she is gone savage. What a savage song she has become, she is a girl gone savage. Why must you master her smile, when you already know her name. What's in a name, everything. Why you want to do that, why you need to do that, is beyond me. This is not what I want. It's beyond all the desires I have, all the desires I have had. For her. And her name? Where is it. What's in her name, her name? It's all in the rain.

I don't need October for it to be October. Despite being a chiaroscurist instigator, I remain a recruiter of shadows.