Wedding processions

I speak

I speak what you don’t want to say

You speak a language, I don’t want to hear

My ears, my tongue, my lips and my ass

They aren’t purified in the verbosity of poetry

but scandalised and tormented

in the burning heat

that makes me

taste a language

saline and bitter;

the chillie-rimmed glass

of this hand job

ejaculates in blood and tears.

We no longer speak

because we were dead

long back

or we never existed,

Let’s not conjoin fingers

in an expression of orgy across world

or either shriek in pain

to the loud drums beatings outside the house.

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