She hung fat on a citrus tree,
sprouting like a hip jut,
like the tall grass and itch weed.
The sweating sun drunk her up and splaid ‘er bare,
sliced her clean open before
the pecking birds could close in.
An orchard is a sea side,
so if the ships could, they would
swashbuckle the great ocean of trees
and lick the seafoam of blossoms that
sprayed upon their greedy lips.
Instead their rusted Volkswagens
watch at bay from the back roads.
The pickup trucks mouth the days
till the ripe time.
Young navel, that oil green coat
doesn’t fit like it used to, and summer’s the
kinda lover who licks at your skin.
So when the men come with the topaz winds,
with their sunken buckets and gall,
should it be you who dip into the wharf
of their palm? Should it be you who bows
down, who twirls for those brutes who
like them too soft, too soon?
An orchard is a seaside,
stretched thinner than the thick of here.
So when you begin to seep,
to wrinkle and prune.
When you, filled with your many months
fall at the Earth’s hip,
amongst the tall grass and itch weed.
Will they not see your beauty then,
Is the fruit not sweetest rotten?
Car car car,
Look how we've come so far,
Love the way your key started fitting in my hand,
Fiat, Alfa, Bufori, any brand
When I touch that unlock button,
The surge of thrill in me is sudden,
As I press that start stop
I recall last time, exhaust's going bang pop!
And once I get you into drive,
All you wanna do is touch 135,
While you are as safe as a Russian tank,
It's that armour plated panels we thank
I see you act like a NASCAR,
But never tired, only faster,
Then comes the night,
We go left we go right,
Blaring bass, on your maxed out JBL,
Loud enough to cast any desired spell...
After all the swashbuckle hooning,
bring you home for some more tuning.
Aah, a pair of beautiful headlights gazing at me,
When I'm with you, there's no measure of the glee.
People say I'm obsessed with you, and they would,
And if they mean bad, they barely know what's under the hood.
Icing on the cake is that playlist, drums and dholl,
Yeah man, that's how we roll.
Can she dance with me, no,
On the road she's like jackson
When dreaming about in the driving seat,
Writing this poem wasn't big a feat.
By Aaryan Yadav
Carcass of the sunken ship
with treasures held on rusted hip.
Salt encrusted pirate’s lips
which whisper into the sea.
Whisper of adventures had
cacophony of laughter mad.
When you were just a gold toothed lad
sails billowing, white wind.
Rising images from the sea
from shiny new technology.
Camera steals your privacy
white bones clutching glory.
Smoothly rolling up above you
vessel dense and floating sky blue.
Filled with Captain, deck and port crew
bent with eager hearts.
Blossomed greed through the camera’s eye
when sifting sand a gold coin spied.
If only you were still alive
to swift swashbuckle the thieves.
Yo Ho Yo Ho, you have just been had,
by the newest, improved model of the modern scalawag!!!