Uttaran Das Gupta’s #poem of interruptions and desire

When you wake up, the bedroom is still dark,
But the bathroom door is ajar, and you
Can hear water, the tap running. You see
The shaft of light on the carpet. You stretch,
The blanket falls, the cold air excites you
Like a secret lover. You smile, get up,
And without bothering to put on your gown
You walk into the bathroom to find me,
Getting ready to shave, like the opening
Of Ulysses. I, too, am not wearing
Anything. You grab a handful of my
Buttocks, bite my neck: “Shaving without me
Again?”—“We’ve got plans… to the monastery.”
—“No, we don’t.” You push me to a cold wall
And take my penis in your mouth.

Through the window, I can see the rain clouds,
The telephone starts to ring.—“It must be
The reception.”— You don’t let go of me
Till my knees are ready to betray me,
And I feel everything in me, shooting
Like a rocket, towards the black hole
Of your mouth.—“What do I get?” you demand.
“What do you want?”— You stand up, and kiss me:
“I want to shave you.”—“OK, but can you?”
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?” You instruct me
To go to the room and sit on a chair.
I obey. You follow, armed with the foam,
The razor, the towel.  Then, you take out
The iron handcuffs we had used last night.
“Why do we need these?”—“Why do you think?”

My hands are cuffed behind the chair, my eyes
Bound in a blinker. You sit on my lap,
Bite my ears. My penis gets snug in the cleavage
Of your buttocks.—“Are you comfortable?”
You squeeze out a generous quantity
Of foam in your palm and start applying
It on my stubble, my cheek. The excess
You rub off on my chest. Then you apply
The razor to my face, a little stronger
Than you should. I wince, you withdraw.—“Sorry
Did I hurt you?”—“No!”— You come in again:
It could be the sword of a Samurai.
Your hand moves like a confident pilot
About to land his plane on a narrow
Strip in an Equatorial forest,
Or an executioner oiling her

When it’s done, you get off my lap.
I can’t see you, you apply a little
Too much aftershave on my burning face.
Then, I hear you squeeze out more foam.—“It’s done,”
I say.—“No, you have too much pubic hair.
Always get a few in my mouth.” You put
The foam around my groin. I feel the blade
Move so close, so close…
The phone keeps ringing.
Bloody receptionist! Can’t she get it?
We are in a spacecraft, hurtling away
From Earth destroyed by a nuclear meltdown.



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Uttaran Das Gupta Written by:

Uttaran Das Gupta was born in Calcutta, India, and read English at Jadavpur University. His poems and articles have appeared or are forthcoming in Reading Hour, Magnapoets, Raedleaf,Fulcrum, Open Road Review, The Sunflower Collective, The Dhauli Review, Strip Tease, Café Dissensus and Indian Literature, and have been translated into Bengali and Telugu. He is a journalist with Business Standard, New Delhi, where he frequently reviews books and films. He is also a member of The Sunflower Collective. At present, he is working on his novel and was at the Sangam House Residency in January. His poetry has been shortlisted for the Raedleaf Poetry Competition 2016 and his short stories have been shortlisted for Juggernaut Short Story Prize 2016 and Open Road Review Short Story Contest 2016.

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