Sreemanti Sengupta is an anxious poet, a self published author, a despairing copywriter and a dangerous Bipolar. She peaks on narcissism and has recently decided she cant do without eloquent abuses. Her brain's GPRS is konked and she can land up anywhere in Kolkata, India when poetry is chasing her. Alarmingly, she has been published in some print anthologies and web journals. When nobody was interested in her, she partnered with a beautiful Brazilian artist and wrote a crazy book. Buy it, will ya? http://www.amazon.com/First-Person-Sreemanti-Sengupta/dp/1497324084/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399985940
reach her at: email@example.com
when a trapeze
man with a
is flying to meet
a ballerina with
The show was a hit. Woody seemed more animated than usual. His jaws moved like a dream. He talked of slavery and bonded labour and world peace. Everybody thought it was cute.
strike a match and come closer and devour my kisses into christmas trees with angels sitting pretty on frosted windows with naked pinup girls staring on with kohl ridden eyes of far flung arab refugees hiding in camps and pirouetting in green caviar sauces their canines printed red with wine and avocados the strawberry juices flowing down to the breasts like huge heaving sand dunes shifting places like rita on the day in school when she started menstruating out of the blue she stepped inside the cellar where the vampires were feeding on dead presidents sucking out their brains to decode what they had to do with the nature of darkness that scares little billy every night on the hard steel bed only before he cocks his ears and hears himself masturbating in lavish dreams of a field of poppies snoring against the trade winds and daffodils dancing against the cheek of an ugly princess whom frogs refuse to to kiss a book of scandals its pages flying off in bits and pieces a beggar catches them from a window ajar where wafts of Beethoven fly into the ears of witches spinning around slowly on a spell to kill the earthworms that grow under the feet everyday you wake up and find that the tub is filled with a mermaid all desiring your body and when you offer them your soul they try to become humans who will rule the moon where leaps have been taken a long time ago and signs of primitive lovers who crouched on each other and mated like dogs in broad daylight under a canopy of dense green trees where light glimmers through into a shackle where the pygmies are crouched over the woman in labour her cries pierce through the park and frighten the trained mongrels who ruffle and woof and the ladies kiss you on the mouth avoiding the ruptured lips and nose for bad breath of a prisoner who has weird foot orgasms for ten years when he looks for freedom for the boy from school when puberty has hit him hard and fast and he ran and ran to a wishing well and fairies rose and rose up to the sky and spread out their broken wands only to bid goodbye to magic