Pulp Romance

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She hesitantly walked towards me
Smiled.
I burped “Hello”

My hair jazzed
My toes curled
My breath uneven choked
A redhead in front of me

Her perfume had struck hard upon my tarred lungs
I could feel her breath on my left hand ring finger
A lucky omen for an old surviving poet

I didn’t notice her hand
Slip into her soft brown handbag
But I sure did, when a .38
Emerge out blatant
Before I could think
She fired…

My eyes and nose resemble Russians
My ears have a Jewish noise
But I don’t look a pilot capable of flying

I wondered many a times
About my final eventuality.
A gunshot?!

I never aspired to be a politician
Assassinated, accused, of flirting with Monroe
During office hours behind the office
Clinton though survived
That’s unusual

I never cared much about men in uniform
Martyr my life, that’s not my kind of shit
Soldiers die in numbers, names don’t matter

The trigger in act and blood spurting out of my belly
I timed : .00002375 seconds
I ALWAYS WEAR A STOP WATCH.

Blame Casio
Blame the Japanese
They stop-watched Pearl Harbor
And later devastated by the mushroom war
They strictly focused on
Small cars and Walkman

I’m dying, right!
Just before I was to drop dead
She punched struck kung fu
Her fingers sneered through my ribs
And pulled my heart out
My small little tender heart
Reminded me of the healthy heart print
On sunflower oil brands
My eyes were in tears
My claims of an innocent, humble, adorable heart
Needed no more better evidence
It had survived all the abuses
The mean world had hurled at me

Oh, my poor heart
Foolishly throbbing on hope
For love
For me
For thee

This is worse than being Othello
I never had met this bitch before
It could’ve been a case of mistaken identity
I ain’t famous nor am I dating a beauty pageant
I never got involved with a lesbian
Make her bitch envy me
I hardly curse unless
I have to call a bitch, a bitch
I never had met this bitch before
Why me?

Alas, there I was, lying in my Budweiser pool
Budweiser did pay me handsome
Endorsed my poems
They send me a day shift maid to get my house cleaned
Poor old lady fainted
She couldn’t deal with my dump collected over a week
Flush didn’t work and my landlady didn’t care
It was my dump and I wasn’t going to disown it
So three cheers to Budweiser
Pool of blood

Right, I am dying
Redhead pressed the knob of her watch
She vanished
Blurred images…
Followed by a star shaped, crimson flash
Black screen.

I faded in gently
lying on a large soft bed
In a palatial room
Head resting on a large black satin pillow
I gasped, sprung up
Facing a mirror, facing me
I looked a model
A handsome young model
Just like the ones in contraceptive commercials

Beethoven’s fifth symphony emerged in surround
I winked in disbelief
Digital bar lines appeared
Dancing in tandem with his composition
I winked again
Redhead star trekked through the bar lines
Her clothes tore in rhythm
With Beethoven’s conducting hands

Naked, she stepped closer to me
I grabbed her
She kissed me
Her tongue snaked wild with mine
I was living a fantasy I had never fantasized before
My fantasies are modest unlike me.
They never dare surpass the road side hookers.

She spread her legs
Inviting me to her world
“I am Eros, the God of Love, the poster boy of the 155th edition of Kama sutra
The contraceptive super model”
I slipped in
Her palms opened wide
Creating a hurricane of rose petals
Rising from the middle of her palm
But then I paused

In shivers
Guilty, I paused
I’m unworthy of love
I’ve killed the most beautiful moment
A moment of love destroyed in a moment
By my sexual act
“I’m a perverse, self-indulgent moron
Hang me for I deserve none but a painful death”
I pleaded.
She smiled, engulfed me in her soft arms
“In resides you an innocent heart. let him free for he deserves no
more pain but love”

My heart sank, speechless
Beethoven paused to silence
I looked up the hollow ceiling
Stars turned off their lights
Candles in million
Lit up in the sky
I surrendered to his voice silent

In symphony
We resumed in orgasmic trance
She moaned, her soft hands pressed my arms white
Blood gushed from my skin pores
It was a sight, a fountain spring red…

I rocked her, I rolled her
My bones cracked open
My fingers dropped off me
And punched the invisible piano
Stroking the notes in madness

She moaned in multiples
She moaned so loud
Disrupting the sync
She had slipped into her own glory
Forgetting she was to nurse my heart
My heart
Puffed out
Youth worn dry
Fuck the sunflower oil brands
Fuck my poems, my drunken nights
Fuck Beethoven and his symphony
I looked up
There were no more candles
Fuck the stars
Clouds hovered in herd
I gave way
to her multiples…

My heart couldn’t bear no more
Ashamed, pained, aghast,
My heart pleaded for death
And there appeared a sharp knife
Floating in the air
I gave way
To my heart, for one more time
The last time

57 thoughts on “Pulp Romance

  1. Pulp romance? ’twas a orgasmic journey, to there and back. Wow!! Heart thumping, emotion grinding, tongue drying, flight of fantastic fantasy. (’twas fantasy right? 😉 ) xx

  2. Wow, wow and wow!! Great photo!!! And then the poem– such a mix of moods and images. First time I read it, I wondered if I was tripping. Edgy, moving, beautiful, gross, phantasmagoric, gentle, violent– a kaleidoscope of clashing images. How did you manage it? Was it the influence of liquid diet or more? Quentin Tarantino meets “film noir.” Up there with your best.

  3. Hello Arjun, I’ve just checked my comments including the ones that were spammed and found three of yours from June 25 in spam section😦. I have no idea how this happened, but it was not my doing… and there I was wondering what had stopped our conversation…

  4. Arjun!!!! You are back??? Have missed you a lot and thought I would never hear. Have been wondering how you’re doing and if you are making films or taking wonderful photos or writing a novel or all of the above. How ARE you??? Hugs, Ellen

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