Plurality isn't enough to tickle you pink.
I've shared magical, misty evenings
with endless seekers via somatic unguents
but not unlimited with the one I wanted,
certainly not when I was a louse in love, when
all of me was a photocopy of priapic rush,
when monosemy of skiving left me with
a jack-o-lantern smile. Numbers never woo.
It kvells to be in sync with one who soothes.
Per contra those consumed by tenderesse
on another day may thirst for other thighs.
The otherworldliness of poetry annexes
parts of me, urging me to inhale it. True
to type, I acquiesce to its essence till the
terminus a quo of cadence and its sweep.
Words are my warriors. No-one can nix
the urge to imbricate. What has to must
spume. It can be scrubbed or reshaped.
Dossier of your doings is in the ashcan of
my interiority. Smoking you was deleterious
to self-image. I strolled to and fro in my mind,
alighted from staircase of fuzzy connections.
Fanfaronade is fine but dictums can't live it.
The rowing of ravens is shut off by soundproof
oriels. How does one seal these anechoic squeals?
Sanjeev Sethi's poems have found a home in The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Solstice Literary Magazine, Off the Coast Literary Journal, Synesthesia Literary Journal, Oddball Magazine, Hamilton Stone Review, Dead Snakes, Literary Orphans, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Otoliths and elsewhere. Poems are forthcoming in Sentinel Literary Quarterly Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Bitchin' Kitsch. He lives in Mumbai, India.