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India
Jack of all trades, master of none.....but I guess that is all it takes.

Monday, April 10, 2017

of straddling tongues and more

My memory of you is of salivating tongues.
Tongues tasting the queer geometries of us.

Didn't we both have our favorite holes. 

It is hard though to decide what those tongues did to each other.
It wasn't just sex.
Eat,
crawl,
scratch,
knead,
poke, trace,
twist, nudge;
a hundred verbs would have to come together to begin to describe what they did to us.
Those straddling tongues.

There had never been a body whose entire breadth of existence and states of matter I had been so intimate with. 
You,
are my own.

When you slept,
I would sync our breaths
so that I took yours in with every one of mine.
I tasted the nails you once clipped,
and did not you wonder,
why I kissed you so much?
It was delicious,
refreshing,
to drink your kisses.

Even now the thought of it makes me drool, and renders my tongue restless.
In the places that I visit,
I practice what it would be to cup the back of your head and enter you.
Tongue first.

It would be fine if you ever got paralyzed, and needed to be cleaned up when you shat yourself.
Part of me wants to hose you down right now.

A thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,
to paint, pee and pet,
to dirt, drink and drag,
to pretend to eat,
to lick, to lash,
to cooking for you a full meal for cash,
a thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,
I want to do with you right now.

But most of all,
it is the straddling tongues,
that I want.
  

Lying and Lovemaking


“And so it was with us, she, moved by poetry and drink, feeding me with sweet lies, while I wove for her intricate and terrifying threads of fantasy.” 
- The Season for Migration to the North


"Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie... 
- Love the Way You Lie"



the biggest acts of lies seemingly come from the lover,
in eminem's rap, in literary fiction, in life.
what does love change?
the tendency to lie or the sensitivity to them?
is lying just a part of the overall act of love making;
a stroke in the throes of mind fucking, 
as one might;

'put it’?

a part of successful lying is in the ability to know which lies to tell, 
in telling the lies that people are likely to believe as truths,
 in telling the lies,
that aren't really lies. 
there is a beauty in these lies, and there is a need in these lies,
that transcends any of truth.

there are also certain truths in lies.

delicate truths which cannot exist as such in the materiality of reality,
but they find existence in counter-factuals, lies, in a meta-reality.
A casual hobby becomes something we can't live without,
a common tragedy becomes a life changing experience, 
an ordinary trip, the most surreal location one has ever seen;
in our re-telling of them.

this exoticising of past
eroticizes the present; 
which is why we are only too eager to fall for those lies. 

then, there are lies
which are not manipulation of truths,
but are 
its invention. 
lies, which could have been the truths, 
lies, which almost became the truths, 
lies, which become truths 
in 
their 
telling.

lies, which are like dreams, 
both real and yet unreal. 

the reasons dreams are cherished is not because they can become truths,
but exactly because they can never.
those are the real dreams; 
the ones which can be lived only in the realms of mind; 
and some lies, 
are like those dreams.

we all indulge in this repackaging of ourselves and in the process,
start to believe in it; 
reconstructing ourselves to the need and requirement of our lover,
become poetic with a poet, 
appreciate art with an artist.

sometimes,

growing into these new roles we have concocted for ourselves,
and finding homes in them.


and sometimes,

failing to do so.

these begin the lies that remain lies.
but they become lies we start living with.

claims of an exceptional past that never existed,
thoughts and motivations that were never there.
but their outlandishness is exactly the reason why they are used,
because they seem like the kinds that could not exist and are therefore
exotic. 

the exotic experience that lovemaking is,
compared to rest of the life,
it demands a certain exotic setting that comes only through lies.

this tendency to believe in exotic lies, 
and not just believe but tell them, 
betrays a need to travel. 

let’s face it, travelling is sexy.
it’s sexy because it is full of possibilities.
and in lack of the actual travelling,

lies become a way to travel.

to sex is to randomize, 
to juggle up that jar of genes and produce a new, never before created combination. 
sex
is randomization, 
even if it is randomizing of the ways to be with just one person. 
and travelling is a way to introduce random it into our lives. 

dislocation through lies serves this purpose.
it teleports us from our current, 
spatially and temporally. 
the decoration of the bed,
the dressing up,
that reflecting through the mirrors-
relocating, mutating and re-numbering of our bodies
all exercises in lying in order to shuffle ourselves,
a many times,
in multiple places,
across multiples times.

ironically, this only becomes subtler when the act of love becomes physical. 
the very act of dimming of lights before sex is a certain kind of lying. 
it is the dimming of the starkness of body’s true, clear details 
into shadows and fuzziness.
a silent allowance to your partner
to re-construct details of your body
according to their needs.
to make it easy for them to lie to themselves
about who it is that they are sharing their body with
and in return get similar privileges for oneself.
it thus plays a crucial role in making true
the fantasies that the lovers may desire but may not share.

and yet, it is also bringing out a truth of different kinds,
in lying to the eyes, one makes clearer the truths of the skin.
darkness,
is essential for one to dream.

it proveslove in ways that no truth can, 
one must care enough to lie.
it takes effort to lie, 
to live in the guilt of lie,
and therefore, is a sacrifice for someone else’s happiness. 
it implies a certain fear of loss that would not exist without the love. 
and thus, also becomes a way to glorify it.
  
it allows for a buffer between the truths one must believe 
 and the ones they would like to believe, 
it allows for the buffer between lessons one has learnt, 
and those one eventually will, 
between the slowly evolving present 
and a wiser future.