অন্ধকার সে তো রুপকথা

It was a Pink Floyd song,
resting between my thighs,
inside the bends of my head.
It was still, moving,
passing by slowly,
like jazz beating inside my eardrums,
licking me deep,
slowly, mouthing words away.
You were the softness of thunder,
inside my lungs,
quenching my desire
for smoke and more, more and more
always more.
You were the flute in the distance,
Krishna and You,
You and Krishna,
remains where the shadow
of Radha’s clothes – lies.
You were constantly, in the background
of all my thoughts,
with marks of ages on the wall.

‘1000% I used to give a fuck!’
You were burning my throat
like whiskey on the rocks,
fuck the fake face,
the lights were blurry,
I moved with drums
in my blood,
it was so scary.
You strummed upon
tables-tops, pumping
to the beat of the tiny star
vibrating in the squirky parts of my stomach
‘Death Grips’ my lungs,
water falling
drop by drop,
slowly, so more slowly,
one at a time,
it keeps on falling,
till music of unknown
vibration, waking me,
pushing me, hits me
hard in my face,
lost in trance,
connect, to connect,
to the yellow drug,
hanging from above.
Men, who like, one of many,
streamed words, to
tie knots harder in my stomach,
my body was shivering,
under your beats,
killing my cell, by an inch,
until you stop in stillness.

He said, ‘it’s over’…
অন্ধকার সে তো রুপকথা।

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