Narcissus

 

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

Mera Jasmine

 

I love it the way the flower buds lean.

Like young children leaning out of the window

Of a passing bus. 

 

I love it the way the flower buds glow in the light

Like virginal pubescent girls, eager to bloom,

Eager to love and be loved.

 

I love it, the sensuously soft petals

So smooth and tender to touch

Like the arm of one I no longer remember. 

 

All that remains, is her fragrance -

Long after the bloom and the withering

All that would remain is the fragrance

Of that flower in my memory. 

 

***** Balachandran, Trivandrum, 30.04.2020

Spider in the Toilet

 

In the claustrophobic cubicle

(the reason none other dare use it)

That is my exclusive toilet,

At the stroke of midnight

We engage in a silent conversation.

I sit on the seat, hardly a foot away from her.

Twisting myself awkwardly, I strain to focus.

in the dim light, her eyes twinkle

As the light of the headlamp lights her up.

I have known her ( or her ancestors) for long.

Very polite, seemingly embarrassed

Having to witness my nocturnal

Passage of the bowels, she pretends

To be busy with cleaning herself up.

Observing her through the camera

I am reminded of the many lonely nights

and days in toilets

I have spent in the company

of ants, spiders

Geckos and frogs

Who sit mute, still, watching me.

She isn't afraid of me; nor am I of her

In that companionable, comfortable

Camaraderie that I feel only with very few -

Dogs, dragonflies and arachnids of different hues.

A cubicle of a toilet is a safe place

For friends, outcasts, to come together.

****** . Balachandran V, Trivandrum 06.02.2019