Spit drips from the underside of my gaping mouth–
this is my response to the day’s merciless dulling.
I’ve been a man in love who once tried to fit
too many flowers into a bouquet.
They were too few to bloom into a garden.
On long winding highways when stray animals are folding
into barren skin on the sides, I suddenly think about
the loveliness of your nostrils, how scientists are studying
shy spiders, how ants inspire social behavior.
The inanity and gross irrelevance lactate my eyes.
I’ve fought with my lover over a feather
because everybody wants something immeasurably light.
As if owning bestowed on you the benevolence to share.
So much of it is such ridiculous algorithm, you wonder
if God is also learning, surprising himself everyday.
I’ve been so fascinated with the peach emoticon
that I’ve forgotten I’ve never tasted a peach my entire life.
By tasting I mean–mastication, slurping, even tearing–
the sort of thing that shakes your soul, that evokes
the memory of withering muscle, callous cell.
For instance, the jangle of your thigh’s insides
and how it nudges me towards ecstasy
as I lie like a half awake transistor
sending out sporadic odes of static
wisping into the country air.
Satya Dash's recent poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Magnolia Review, Prelude, The Nasiona, Porridge, Barren Magazine. He has been a cricket commentator, dabbled with short fiction and has a degree in electronics from BITS Goa. He lives in Bangalore, India and recites his poetry in the city's cafes. Find him on Twitter @satya043