Do you want to touch my monkey?

How many of you think/ agree with the idea that watching pornography together can be good for a couple? A growing number of relationship experts and counsellors suggest that if a couple are having trouble with sex (with each other!) or their relationship is getting lacklustre or they are bored of the same-old-thing vis-a-vis sex, watching pornography will a) bring them closer b) spice-up their sex lives and c) give their relationship a new life. Agree, disagree or think that's crap? I have some ideas/opinions on that but I really want to know what you think. If you know other people who might have a say on the issue or think/feel strongly about it, please pass on this question/link.

(published in) The Hindustan Times, 31 July, 2008
Posing poses, hiking haikus

While 'social porn'
is the latest fad, there
is a whole world
out there that swears
by the madness
-- and pithiness --
of onlike haikus

What do you think of the phrase 'social porn'? To give you a hint, it's one of the latest (well, a year-old) cyber development that has many up in arms. It is user-generated pornography – as against shot-in-the-studio porn – and is slowly, steadily becoming the next best thing after social networking. Why network based on hobbies when you can network based on your fishnet fetish?

Social porn is also the only development that has both feminist groups and the adult film industry people agreeing with each other: Both consider it bad news. If the feminists feel that 'social porn' will further encourage the portrayal of women as commodities (even if the women are happy posing for different angles?), the adult film industry is concerned that the commoditisation will not yield any moolah for them. For their respective reasons, both groups don't want 'social porn' to catch on. Fat chance given it's free and does not need downloads.

Other than social porn (sorry, family newspapers do not encourage porn-pandering so no links!) there's much else that's free on the Internet, particularly in the blogosphere. There is free advice on house-keeping. Or free music reviews, if you aren't already up to your ears with everyone and their grandpa dishing out what they think you should be listening to. Some people do it with style though. "It's not easy being a pretentious, posturing, egocentric, and elitist music snob. In part because there is so goddamn much popular music that it is hard to keep up," says Jason on Hipster Dork even as he takes a punch at Arctic Monkeys – and for those indie-lovers who gasped – at indie lovers.

If Jason's love for phrases like 'pleonastic pablum' put you off and if you are one of Those who insist blogging should have some meaning, some higher purpose, some greater good (etc, yawn, etc), check out Mad Haiku for a hard kick in the gut (or wherever else gives you the kicks). From a take on world peace, Pres Bush to erectile dysfunction, Mad Haiku has some, well, mad haiku on everything. It's best read under the influence of mind altering drugs, but of course you need a doctor's prescription for those. While the haiku's aren't recommended for sending to your girlfriend (unless she has a good sense of humour), you should try those on your boss (they never have a funny bone). Like the one on what the man in the moon really thinks: Full moon in the sky/ Beckons hauntingly/ Earth girls are easy!

It’s not PMS, it’s your f*****g face

We women are bloody funny. Actually, bloody every month and just sporadically funny. Even when women are being funny it's more a situational comedy-like funny than laugh-out-loud funny. Am I making sense? Of course not, that's also because I am a woman. We say one thing, believe another and could be thinking something totally different.
The politically correct term for it is multi-tasking. Right. Multi-tasking my arse. It can be downright painful I tell you, this ability (or handicap) of thinking three things at a time. Look what it did to Virginia Woolf. While it could cut down output levels -- think of a woman making a PowerPoint presentation while wondering what's for dinner and how she has to send a birthday card and looking at her chipped nail-polish as she types -- it also causes serious damage elsewhere. It makes women COMPLICATED.

Is it any wonder then that two XX chromosomes make a girl and an X-Y chromosome make a boy? Male chromosome = Y = WHY! And female is two crosses. Why am I going on about multitasking, genes and bloody months? Because either or all of the three are currently playing havoc with MANY really nice women/girls/chicks I personally know... All three combined never let us be at peace.

Like period cramps. Unlike a football injury, or a thumb-ache due to too much X-Box-ing or a backache due to sitting on the couch/bed watching TV or a car/bike accident, women don't have to DO anything for that pain. It also makes you moody as hell, which in turn negates any justifiable moodiness or other feelings you might have. She is angry with the boss? PMS. Crying in a movie? PMS. Doesn’t like her boyfriend sharing moments with his Ex? PMS. Doesn’t want to pay tax? PMS. No matter what the reason for a woman EMOTING, it’s become fashionable to say, “Ah, must be PMS.” No you fuck, it’s not PMS; it’s your fucking face. . (For the smart arses: Am not PMS-ing)

Then there’s not knowing what we really want OR if we get what we really want; we doubt it or our luck. Like first we wonder about whether we will meet Him. Then we wonder if He will love us, marry us. Then we marry Him and wonder if He will cheat on us. And if in the stages between meeting and marrying, He goes and dumps us; you’re looking at a lifetime of complicatedness. No matter HOW big a jerk a woman dated, somewhere deep down she will always wonder: Maybe it was my fault?

Like that Jocelyn Wildenstein who went in for drastic facial plastic surgery because she thought her husband was losing interest in her. She lost the husband, her marriage, her fucking face and is now the object of global ridicule. With due respect to every woman who EVER wondered about her man losing interest in her – shall remind myself of this as well – if you have THAT many doubts, don’t lose your face or your money, lose the guy. Yes you might be bitter and lonely for the rest of your life; you won’t be butt ugly.

If the bastard did not stand by you, HE didn’t have a spine. If he slept around, it was because HE could not keep his cock in his pants and NOT because you could not hold on to him (and he will have herpes sooner or later, let’s pray). If he does not like your cooking, let him stay with his mother. If he likes longer legs, let’s hope he finds those legs and then she cleans him out. And if one (two, three, four) boyfriend dumped you, does not mean that every man will. Just incase you DO have a good man in your life, stop blaming him for the other jerks you’ve known. It’s not easy for a man to be nice – nasty's in their nature – so when he's being good, appreciate it!

And since this is threatening to be a rather long post, am stopping here. Oh yes, DON’T read articles/ researches that say men like long legs. Or big boobs. Or low waist-to-hip ratio. There are equal and corresponding numbers of articles that will tell you that women DON’T like man-boobs, skinny thighs, hairy belly buttons or big paunches. And no, James ‘Toni Soprano’ Gandolfini is NO example. It’s a freaking TV show.

This poem is dedicated to all the women I know who for reasons best known to them – and at times to me – are constantly and WRONGFULLY doubting themselves.

Do you really love me Darling?
Am I a passing fad, just another fling?
A drunken fuck, or a moment's thing?

Don't judge me by swollen eyes, the runny nose
I look real hot with makeup and expensive clothes.

Gravity and wrinkles might slightly mar the view
But at least you'd be certain I won't run out on you.

I could be rude, might have a sharp tongue
Twas the wine I say; am not always high strung.

Don't think my cleavage means a lack of inhibition
I gotta keep up honey, there's young competition.

I don't have long legs or taut cheeks like plum
But gimme some credit, there's a spring in my bum.

And no I am not always into superficial looks,
I know current affairs and I know my books.

I can bake a cake and do a rare steak
And be ready in a moment, for you to take.

It's a lil daunting, to think am always on a test.
But baby till you love me, I'll always best the rest.

I know this poem sounds somewhat insecure,
It's just that being a woman, I am not always so sure.

So I constantly compare and end up sounding frantic
Not completely my fault, self-doubt is fucking genetic.

Verse-tality. snort.

There's much to write and have been writing disjointedly, a para in one, two in another. While I thrash out the thoughts, here's some stuff from back and beyond. Starting with a complete one -- my favourite -- and others will a little peek, click on what you like. All the words presented here were written for no one in particular. The words came to me, I wrote, I posted; irrespective of who was or was not in my life. The first one's called, You Are My Ulcer and was written for the soulmate I had not met... not back then that is. Dedicated to the one who miraculously answers it all now... (sends a silent prayer)

You Are My Ulcer a.k.a. Your Skin Is My Sin
I want your skin on me
Vein to vein, feel your scent seep into my pores.
I want to splay my hands across every plane you have,
Cradle, every curve.
I want to bite your calf, kiss the inside of your elbow,
And singe my breast against your ragged jaw.
I want to bite your lower lip,
And feed on it for hours.
I want to kiss; Your brow, your breast, your beard, your naked flesh.
I want to breathe you in; And die afresh.
And I want to see you.
To see if you see that I need you.
I want your skin on me.

I am not ugly anymore
I woke up one morning and realized I loved you.
I woke up another morning and realized you had made a complete idiot out of me. (More...)

I am a product of you
I am a product of you.
The Greatest Slut Born
Who’s not a slut but actually a bitch,
And you don’t get laid when you bitch the bitch (more...)

Maybe baby
If you had 10 years left,
10 years more or less,
Would you call it a curse
Or would you think you're bloody blessed? (more...)

The Shagging Love Song
Fretting here in my studied gloom
Is jes another day spent in purple fumes
I got less time, with many to do
Yet I shag my hand, I'm cravin for you (more...)

Fucking Compatibility
So I met someone rather interesting the other day;
We both were crazy about the movies.
Three days talking cinema, and some generous attention to my boobies;
He still spoke Bogart and Bacall. (more...)

It's just the way you look at me
Root me to where I stand
Make my skin tingle,
And send a shiver up my spine. (more...)

Why did Cinderella stay?
Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway? (more...)

Life's favourite whore

That’s it people, I can’t cry no more,
Tis nothing profound, my eyes are just sore.

Life's such a bloody predictable bore,
Don't cry now, t’morrow nothing will be anymore.
Tis nothing profound, my eyes are just sore.

While elders lapse in tales of yore,
Our dear kids play games of blood ‘n’ gore.
Tis nothing profound, my eyes are just sore.

Why keep grudges, or a goddamned score,
There’ll be a new Reason to weep and 'nother four.
That’s it people, I really can’t cry no more,
Tis nothing profound, my eyes are just sore.

I laugh at Love, all her tales, her lore,
They were for the virgin once, now I’m just Life’s favourite whore.

PS: Had written this in March, when discussing vocal chords with this very beautiful 19-year-old singer, formerly of a Jazz-Blue's band. Her voice had a maturity and her eyes had a strange grown-up-ness in them. Anyway. Now she says she wants to use these in a song... Shrug.

The Shagging Love Song

Fretting here in my studied gloom
Is jes another day spent in purple fumes
I got less time, with many to do
Yet I shag my hand, I'm cravin for you
But nothin ever happens
And I blunder

I'm ridin fine in your arms
I'm ridin you hard, I'm ridin you strong
And it disappears, the vision of you
So I shag my hand, I'm cravin for you
But nothin ever happens
And I blunder

I blunder how, I blunder why
The other day I rode this guy to heaven 'n' nigh
And all I saw was us speeding down the dee-en-dee
The leaves changed from green to brown
And I turn my finger, turn it up, in 'n' around
And all I saw was of us speeding down the dee-en-dee

Isolation is not good for me
Isolation - I don't wanna think of us on the dee-en-dee
I'm dancin' around, using every ploy
Baby anyhow I gotta do another guy
And though much will happen,
It'll be a blunder

(Or whatever.)
___________________________________________________________

"You hate men?! WHY?" This was not from any anonymous, but an acquaintance of a few shared night outs, amongst hordes of others. Another said on another conveyed chat, "Tell her to go back to the old Eve. She's gone mad."


Hmm. I don't hate men. I write about a particular kind of Men and they do exist. No matter how anyone, very moronically, will first read this blog and then thrash around on the floor in agony. Then while denying any "hatred" towards women, go on to wish me triple penetrations, rape, sodomy, gang-rape and fellatio. (Hain? Fellatio as a way of TIRING a woman? Excuse me. If the woman is angry and claims to have a temper like mine - verifiable by people - why would anyone ask for a blowjob? Or risk it?) Gangrapes, yes, are usually known to kill a woman than merely tire her. Wow. This anonymous person has strong anti-me feelings. And THEN the person claims to be a man AND wonders as to WHY I wrie nastily about men. Or, a particular kind of men.


Oh there are AMAZING men. I have met them too. They are the ones who are around when the nasty boys and the beastie boys have had their way. Most certainly, I have abetted in my own misery very willingly. Many so-called strong people who appear quite cant-ruffle-their-feathers and capable of looking after themselves, change when they (think they) fall in love. I think such people just like the idea of letting go of the control and either looking after someone else or being looked after and therefore lose control of their own vulnerability. They show their weak spots. They give (in). They get fucked-over. Ditto.


Is it strange, that even the AMAZING men who are there in my life have had some sort of Nasty Love Story? It involves the female version of the nasty-boys. At times I wonder, if the beasties hurt me and the good ones are around, WHY doesn't anything work out anywhere? Neither of us are interested. Many of my single, eligible friends have their own set of single, eligible friends and yet, no one dates anyone and everyone remains single and eligible. I suspect they fuck though.


When certain people ask "what's so special here?" (no, it doesn't 'bother' me, I like to be able to answer questions posed to me), I think of the Few Good Men. I think all people should think of them (haha, few good people, not necessary for men to think of men, heh) when questioned by nasties. Science says that for a man and woman to be friends, attraction is a must. Whether you choose to do something about it or not is another matter. I suspect that sometimes opposite-sex friendships are also based on pity, when one lets the other hang around becase (a) it doesn't make a difference to you (b) you like your ego pampered and (c) when you know the other is 'dependent' on you and therefore you apply (a) But the pity-friendships don't last, the stronger person usually pulls out on first signs of trouble. Anyway. I think of my good male-friends and the fact that they are bloody good human beings, intelligent men, funny men, capable men, men with spine AND they are my friends. There HAS to be something special about me to have them around. Likewise for all of us... even one good person in our lives negates any number of Nasties.


Erm. I have already declared that I am a pessimist-trying-to-control-it person. So the corresponding negative-thought to the positive-good-men-like-me-thought would be ---> What if these men have YOU around as a pity-friend, Eve*?`Considered that 'sweety'?" But then I am also a perfectionist and like to cover all loop-holes. Or perhaps I am being a typical woman, typically needing constant validation of affection? Hmm. Let's fucking be positive for this moment at least. That's the problem with losing trust you know, you fucking doubt everything. Even your own positive thoughts.


Blah. This post is supposed to be Positive, or was. Reclaiming positivity... Few Good Men (so far): He got me interested in new words, 'chutzpah' being the first he threw at me. He who offers a conversation and company when most needed and shows me brilliant films. He who spends an idle, ideal day that translates into evening and night and doesn't ask any questions when I shut-up for hours at an end. (also the reason why I should perhaps not go to anymore
parties, I go to sleep.) He who's offered me a roof time and again, without a single motive or me giving anything back, ever. Some strangers who have strangely shielded me from other strangers around when I'm trying to get a drink for myself over the bar... I'm short, I get crowded out. So these strangers would just sort of ward off others, buying me the time to get a drink, smile politely, let me pass. They never touch. It's SUCH a nice feeling.

And club bouncers! Ha, ha, there used to be one at Pluto's (now dead restobar that I frequented on Thursday nights way back in 2000-2003) me thinks, who could raise a brow. I never spoke to him, but when I'd get there and be dancing, he'd keep and eyebrow out for me and would arch it threateningly at any not-so-nice company around me. He was my personal Rock. Heh. Uff. I'm digressing into stories... Or he who calls randomly, messages randomly, checks on me and I always make a promise of calling back and follow through religiously by not doing so. And so on and so forth. Can't write anymore, somehow, these stories are more personal.

PS: Notes to self
Romantic: Men don't like you.
Cynic: Yes, I know. (scowl) Aren't you supposed to be dead?
Ghost Romantic: I'm haunting you. Besides, what are you going to do about men not liking you?Cynic: Nothing. Shrug.
GR: Writing 'shrug' is not cool, by the way.
Cynic: shrug.
GR: You are SUCH a teenager. What do you mean nothing?
Cynic: There are some things you can do nothing about...
GR: Stop being mysterious, doesn't suit you. You're very bad at it...
Cynic: Shrug. Like the sun rises from the east. You can do nothing even if your room is placed anti-Feng Shui directions.
GR: You're trying to be cool again.
Cynic: Yes. Shrug. At least I try. Somethings can be changed, somethings can't. Men don't like me. Period.
GR: Hmm...
Cynic: Dy'er maker...
GR: Medicine...
Cynic: Let's go sleep.

Happy Fucking Birthday. Darling.

Happy Birthday, beloved lover,
I so want to take a cleaver

And hack off with great delay, that smug display
(You call your face)
And turn your happy day, into my happy dismay
(Blessed be thy grace!)

Happy Birthday, You!
There are but a few

Who I loved so strong
(And blew all norms)
That it always felt bloody wrong
(And had no logical form)

Happy Birthday, Great Swine
O sickening love of mine

I don’t love you any longer
(For you are also ugly now)
Yet my thirst for you grows stronger
(I’ll get you honey, I anew avow)

Happy Birthday, Dear Beloved!
O hear, hail, what I say, what I said

I don’t Hate you at all
(No sir, the love’s still unbound)
It’s an emotion for you too small
(But what goes, shall come around)

PS:
Don’t sweat the meter
These are mere words, dear Peter

Who Peter? you say
Ah it’s anyone, anywhere, anyway

I am no poet, no bloody laureate
I am just a heartless woman, love’s ingratiate

(so fuck you)

The Devil's Lair

The twist the curl
The tress and twirl
The wind in her hair
The devil’s lair

So softly spun
With a hint of sun
The crest the trough
The undaunted brow

The shoulder caress
A wild, wild mess
A wish so keen
You’re torn between

To wrap and pull
Till your arms are full
To hold her close
Almost nose to nose

To feel her heat
To measure the beat
The impromptu tryst
The stolen kiss

The desire divine
This girl of mine
The wind in her hair
The devil’s lair

Moot Point.

Just this once, once more I called you so
To let you know that I've let you go.

It's okay that we don't have anything to talk about
We'll both find conversations elsewhere no doubt.

Or the fact that our taste in music doesn't match
There's always another song, another tune to catch.

It's okay baby, it's okay that you like to look.
I'll just close my eyes and take another, like you I took.

So it was convenience or perhaps a lack of trust
Or something so weak, it could be shaken by lust.

Whatever it was, that point is moot
But I do get the message that I got the boot!

I am not ugly anymore

I woke up one morning and realized I loved you.
I woke up another morning and realized you had made a complete idiot out of me.

I woke up one morning and realized you said you were a friend.
I woke up another morning and realized you wanted to be a friend for your own malicious pleasures.

I woke up one morning and realized that I was very popular.
I woke up another morning and realized that popularity does not mean friends.

I woke up one morning and thought you had changed, perhaps become kinder.
I woke up another morning and realized your kindness was convenience.

I woke up one morning feeling miserable that you did not love anything about me.
I woke up another morning and realized that you don’t even know how to love.

I woke up one morning and wished I would be so beautiful that I’d blind you.
I woke up another morning and realized that I don’t want to feel ugly for you anymore.

I woke up one morning and realized now you sleep next to someone else.
I woke up another morning and realized I loathe waking up everyday.

to Kyaerie...

There was once a little princess who lived in shades of ink
Of all the many colours it was red that tickled her pink
And as she grew
The thoughts she drew!
Surreal-so real, they border on the brink.

Eve* = To Let

Wait
Hesitate
Frustrate
Negotiate
Mitigate

Patient
Vacant
Errant
Repentant
Reluctant

Me.

Wait
Hesitate...
(And repeat take)

Why did Cinderella stay?

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?

Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?

I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.

I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.

So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

It’s just the way you look at me

Root me to where I stand
Make my skin tingle,
And send a shiver up my spine.

Let me feel your rough hand
The love and lust mingle,
And say without a word, “You’re mine.”

Wreck my vile schemes, plans grand
One, two, all and every single,
And yet reassure that it’d all be just fine.

Mark me with your mouth, your brand
Shake every shard, sinew and shingle,
And Promise, Us would paint the town carmine.

And don’t say a word, oh please, don’t say a word

Once you say them, they would be lies,
Let the words lie in your eyes.
Don’t talk, discuss, dissect, let it, leave it be
It’s anyway just in the way you look at me.

I am a product of You

I am a product of you.
Amoral, illegal, me

The zygote of hard-working parents
The dreams, dreamt within social constraints
The first steps taken in infancy
Pronouncing the A, B, C and D of Democracy.

I am a product of you.
Stubborn, sinful, me

A lifetime of arousals awakened in adolescence
The understanding of ‘acceptance’ in its teen essence
My hymen sold to your conquest, not in a moment of passion,
It was just to wash my virginity, the sacred loss often in a ridiculous fashion.

I am a product of you.
The Greatest Slut Born

Who’s not a slut but actually a bitch,
And you don’t get laid when you bitch the bitch
I am the whore who’ll bed your friend, your sister, your father,
But never you: that’s just not part of the barter.

I am a product of you.
Over-sexed, wanton me
And even my sex is now a disease,
For I don’t know if it’s you or me, who I please.

Going again and then not again!

He took her
To the heights she could not reach
And depths she could not fathom.

He made her
Feel things she wanted denied
And thoughts that came at random.

She wanted
To run to him
Fall at his feet
And breathe her last in his mouth.

I have never been poetic and definitely not been able to rhyme. Still cannont in fact. However, strangely, verses make sense to me, especially when He quotes them. He? Unknown, not met, words that invoke havoc in me because he seems to talk words that are meant for me. Only me. It's exciting, reading him, listening to him, talking to him, laughing with him...there's so much in common, even the fact that we have never met. It's a simple case of hopping on a plane and landing before the other...but we both don't want to do it. Too scared, both of us. Even that is in common. Is it a joke, a tease or another cruel caper, the ones that Life seems to love...? I don't know, he says he doesn't know it either. We will find out, I guess. And meanwhile, words make more sense to me than they ever have.

Contd...

And that is what happens when you have been there and done them. You don't know if the new excitement that you feel is exciting enough... or whether it will lead somewhere. Somewhere too, there is a sort of ennui with all that goes into the dating game, whether real or virtual. You just get tired and somewhat dreary of sending messages, finding out common interests and what kind of music the other listens to, and what they do in their entire day. Because you constantly keep thinking: the other times did not work out and were wasted efforts, what if this one's too...? But then that's life: no pain, no gain!

Your Skin Is My Sin

a.k.a. You Are My Ulcer

I want your skin on me
Vein to vein, feel your scent seep into my pores.

I want to splay my hands across every plane you have,
Cradle, every curve.

I want to bite your calf, kiss the inside of your elbow,
And singe my breast against your ragged jaw.

I want to bite your lower lip,
And feed on it for hours.

I want to kiss. Your brow, your breast, your beard, your naked flesh.
I want to breathe you in; and die afresh.
And I want to see you.

To see if you see that I need you.
I want your skin on me.

Next Post: Porn is a fucking fraud

ALSO READ
Just Married, Just Harried?
Hear Delhi, Here I Cum

Show me the F****g Compatibility ;)

(3.53pm on Sunday, sits in maroon, knee-length negligee, deep V-neck with a teensy black bow at the cleavage. Sips coffee, smokes her cigarette, types out post, which is supposed to be sung as a Blues number, if only could remember the song, so hums along... as pup sleeps a little farther away, growing into a dog with leaps and bounds and gradually descending balls.)

So I met someone rather interesting the other day;
We both were crazy about the movies.
Three days talking cinema, and some generous attention to my boobies;
He still spoke Bogart and Bacaul, or changed the flavour with Macaulay,
Now am a patient woman, but too much deeveedee gets me gray.
So that's when I took off and said,
"honey you got the ability, but show me the fucking compatibility."

Then I bumped into this hunk, who swore his ceevee boasted his libido.
Now that's an area of interest for me, so I chose patience and perhaps a dekho;
He said he liked my cleavage, I said I liked it too.
I said boy you got something to show as well,
Well. He boasted some more and thought THAT was swell!
So that's when I took off and said,
"honey you got the ability, but show me the fucking compatibility."

And the Dude who just LOVES animals...
And informs he doesn't glance at a woman's genitals.
And I thought, Hey that's cool, a nice change of pace,
From having to scream at men, my chest is not my face.
But then he did not believe in pre-marital sex,
And for once, I really re-considered my Ex.
So that's when I took off and said,
"Honey you got the ability, but show me the fucking compatibility."

So now am on the look out, with a trust in my own sensibilities;
Many can fuck and then some, but He, would need to have the fucking compatibility.

Unable to live with it, or without it

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue

by Pablo Naruda

Post Scrap: and i know we will never be together.....and its strange how I can look at myself dispassionately and realise that perhaps I have lost the ability to depend on someone else. Or how I will never feel that crazy fear..the fear that you know when you think your love will go away. The fear that makes it impossible to imagine life without the Other. I dont have that fear, cant allow myself to have it.... and it's sad. It's so sad. My strongest, most faithful, most loving partner...is Me. (Looks down, feels the loneliness seeping in, logs off)