Wow! It's the Mating Season

(for Joanne Merriam)

After reading "The Rainy Season" by JM

1.

As rain falls once again like grace on my attic roof,
I remember those clouded days we paramours
thrillingly spent exploring our bodies' geography
as Spanish navigators did on the voyage of discovery;
our private parts later colonised by each other
and referred to as 'exotic' and we promptly solved

our inextricable crisis like fire that sensuality fuels
as animals do theirs in every mating season.
I remember your full frontal nudity: my tongue and yours
mated in the laboratory of our mouths, my serpents
my hands like a masseur's gliding down your skin
quaking with ecstasy from every pore, as if boulders

swirling down a mountain to plunge into the lake.
You went fishing out on the sea of my sweat,
and your snaky tongue the Persian alchemist made
a tonic of saliva and my sweat, it tasted far better
than anything else we take now for medication.
Then I filled you up with my restless salmon,

your lush creel grabbed it so tight so careful
as ever before not to let it slip out; your orgasmic
screams rolled on foaming crests of seconds
in another sea called Time. Right in my lonesome
attic overlooking a busy street bristling with cars
as if worms flooded into the street, we panted,

saturated with perspiration that our twined
bodies quickened, and rested cuddling so close
as my skin to yours. As rain pours in torrents
again like crystal spears melting onto the ground,
I remember I fed your skin's hunger and mine:
how aptly we did it despite the clamours

and hydraulic horns honking outside, oblivious
of the catastrophe that we'd soon be poles apart.
Everywhere we didn't know things do change.

2.

Memories now dry up like fish on the desert sand.
One stormy night sobbing on the phone you told
me all about him you held onto your heart in a cabaret
and how he later became a cannibal eating worms
his progeny slipping out of your cunt, wriggling wild.
Now I wonder how you have managed a big

fat glutton who only thinks of your private parts
as items of a pompous feast: your thick cherry lips
as a good appetizer, your edible breasts as if baked
bread just put out of the oven, warm and tasty
upon the tongue of your beast, your nipples
like imported raisins in the spice mart, your navel

does deserve a lot fiercer bites, your salty juice
from your cunt as if oral saline for dehydration.
Oh, you said he's so stingy he never buys butter;
he holds in a spoon the salty honey from your cunt
and spreads it on slices of bread and munches
like he hasn't ever touched any food for eternity.

As I watch the drizzle falling on the grass-field,
I remember we kind of thought our bodies
were knotted as snarled trunks of a tree; unsnarled,
we fall apart, dying out on the rough summer plains.
I retch: your cunt no more spongy harbours
his wriggling eel. How time flies! You two mated

in the upstairs lounge of the cabaret as animals
in the mating season, your humble beast deposited
his spunk: fetuses of worms growing faster
in your womb's chamber, the worms that you said
your beastly glutton is so fond of. He swallows
those worms that come wriggling out of your cunt

no more cured by my balmy sperm as before
and his belly's now swollen up as if a plump gourd
an awesome display at an agricultural fair; yes,
the cannibal eating worms his progeny grows fatter
because worms salty with your cunt juice mean
nourishment in his body and his worm-suited soul.

Rain falls outside as I see the canvas rotting fast
in the gutter clogged with things like polythene bags;
Oh, everywhere you find now things do change.




Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 638 times
Written on 2005-09-12 at 06:55

Tags Sadness 

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Gosh, Sofiul, this is a bit... overwhelming, I suppose...
I'm still recovering after having read it...
2005-09-13


Eight-Feet
looks promising, but too long for my short attention span...
2005-09-12