I live at the edge of your scimitar
The wind rushes through my hair
As though I were reeds on the Shatt-el-Arab
And you a debauched river god

I paint you naked, telling you art is for art’s sake
Then I wash the painting away when you ain’t looking.
Life is only an excuse
To get you to strip
And spread my legs.
.
You score me as though you were the hand of God,
Virginity is a small price to pay to be able to laugh
Jesters can bring kings down on their knees.
(Though I can’t tell you what happens afterwards

Horses ride, winds blow
Why should I care for nature
When you can do better than both?


~scio amo

When the sultan’s daughter had asked for a doll
You, lord of Srirangam, came to Delhi and played the flute for her
Long gone are those days
But even now the storm comes, and memories rise like swirled sand dunes
Even now in the messed up courtyard the girls come out to drench themselves
Though they are not allowed to leave the house
It is monsoon, and you are not here,
And nothing has any meaning.

I may not have virtue but I can give my life for you
Surely that should count for something.

I was sad all evening, now I realize I can give up my life for you
I think the evening was worth it.

A squall has come in the ocean, and the boatmen, instead of chasing the waves
Want to sink the ship.

Through wind and rain and reefs and rocks I have steered my boat
Then the fog came, the images vanished, I became a moth that has left the shadows

I don’t care who tells me what
Tonight I make love thinking of God

When all the stars have blown out, and the poor man in his hovel
Has no money to light a candle in the freezing cold and gloom
You still shine, you still shine, you still shine
And the rich man in his palace fears

The day we shall meet, whether you greet me with a sword
Or a caress on my cheek, whether I am young and innocent as greenwood
Or old as a thousand unspent desires,
I shall tell you, I love you

A thousand more lives I may live
A thousand and more loves I may love
Bless me with this memory that I may never forget
It is none but you that I love
I am you, you are me, you are all this creation
Let us meet where you are all
And I am lost.




~~scio amo

Happy 30, Swas

I assume some of you, like me, have the habit of taking a warm shower after a harrowing quarrel with someone…you could take a shower, or you could sleep with her…………

I never thought I would like abstract art before I met her. Michelangelo or Caravaggio for me please, no thanks, I don’t understand a few lines and broken faces masquerading as great art. Les fauves, wild beasts……

Have you seen horses run?I imagine part of the reason men go to her is the same as why they like amphitheatres…You might as well tell her you fancy her as wave a red rag in front of a bull…

Have you ever stood at crossroads and wanted to make no choice, but blow away in all directions, like the winds, like a trail of smoke from an incense-bearer…you must swirl her in your tongue for a long time before you taste her…..she needs to be kissed, long, hard, and by someone who knows how

Her eyes dance like mountains of light. And she sees.. As Toulouse-Lautrec would see his ballerinas, his Moulin Rouge, the bare lines, the drawn faces, the shadows behind the eyes and glittering lights. Abstract art, the skeleton of a man, the bare self……She saw me, I saw her, and the rest didn’t matter…….

Have you ever drawn a picture and then watched rain fudge all the colours? Watched the canvas draining out, flowing like so many rainbow rivers, molten pieces of the blue and gold sky, have you ever held someone and broken down…old wine, even when it turns 30, only ripens…..isn’t Kilimanjaro old?

Have you seen the light of the Impressionist painters? You would know her then. That light, that light which doesn’t just serve as a backdrop to a picture, a kind of convenient companion to the chef d’oeuvre, but is the picture itself, pouring out like passion from every branch en plein air, from every pore of the skin, from every picnic basket, till finally the whole painting becomes light itself, the light walks, not caring if it is wrong or it is right, it gambols, escapes the museum…..can light be dark, can we even think straight when we meet her?.........you must watch her when she think you aren’t, and you will notice how her eyes darken with passion every time she loses control when you say something that was nice…oh, and don’t forget to play with her foot, its one of the most erogenous things around, lickability second only to a ferrero rocher…

Its okay if she broke a bed while making love. You really cant hold it against her, can you? When she is 40, buy her a new bed, and break it again.

Just sit down with her. Watch the world and all its cares vanish away as the smoking waves ripple over your muscles, teasing, stretching, warming and cooling you in turns, whispering: all your cares are gone, you are safe now, you are safe…..and you are back to the bush beyond which the forests begin…….

Play her like a Spanish guitar, she loves all things espagnol. Make a mean tequila for her, get her drunk, and take advantage….trust me, she’s the most precious thing you can bring back from a pub. (and she doesn’t have a shred of modesty, so I don’t think she’ll mind)

You make me laugh like no one can, that’s enough reason why I call you home

With her you have all the world to gain, and she has nothing to lose except her virginity….Voila, c’est la revolution quand elle aime! Don’t let her think or she’ll start thinking you feel she is ugly (blame some stupid upbringing antics), just f--- her senseless before she can think. Then tell her to play rannabati with you…..

……..


You feel like you are the luckiest man in the world because you love her and she loves you

It’s the simplest thing in life


scio amo