“through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us. . ."

Tuesday, July 7, 2020


Eyes closed, I lie on my back
Following their arms mentally
As the masseurs run their fingers
Pressing, squeezing, rubbing in
The warm oil all over me.

From the sole of my feet, up
Through the ankles, calves, knees
And thighs, passing deftly
My privates and up to the torso
My hairy, broad chest, shoulders
And the nape of my neck.

The loincloth barely leaves me clothed.
As the masseur's fingers and then the pouch
Filled with medicinal leaves soaked in starchy fluid
Spread warmth all over me,
I wonder if I might get an erection;
I don't.

Turning me over, the warm oil and then
the slimy starch draw gluey patterns on my back.
My buttocks, rather big,
Now smooth, soft, rounded like melons.

The masseur squeezes that lump,
The inflammation still hot on my hips;
I squirm and groan, in pain and pleasure.

Eyes closed, I lie on the wooden plank
Like a slab of meat, fresh from the butcher.
Eyes closed, I imagine myself
Watching me from above.

This hunk of flesh that is me
That has been me, that'll me
For so many years!
We have been together ever since
The day I was born!

I love it; with all its shortcomings.
I adore my penis, how so well I know him!
Every strand of hair, every scar, every wrinkle -
This living, breathing being that is me!

There is nothing hidden, no secrets between us;
We took pleasure, pain we suffered together -
That is me, this me, together till the last breath!
I look at myself with great kindness...

***** Bala Chandran V. Trivandrum. 07/07/2020

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