Is That Your Woman? Poem by Rishav Rastogi

In the alleyways of Moscow
when life gets stuck into ideologies divided
in a rut,
Appears you need to break the ice
with warmth more than the freezing cold,
Someone calls you from the silhouette shades
and your bloody eyes laugh like a hyena,
A tailor who measures more than a waist,
a hip, a breast and something more
through the window of your car,
You juggle your pockets until they are torned
till the last dropp of your splash,
Sans bearing much fruit of an inspired response
called love,
Is that a woman?
Is that your woman?

In the streets of Berlin
when you breathe life into something,
It appears someone's waist shaking circles of your nerves
no need for a tailor as technologies tagging measurements,
In digital matrix of all statistics they beckon you
from those glazed glass masonettes,
Fervence becomes more lucrative than immunity
just in the burning of some rubbers,
You never know the cards you swipe
in the place which is farway second,
Something called trust bethrottles you
in then game of sour restraint and sweet vulnerability,
Is that a woman?
Is that your woman?

In the offices of New York
decision stuck in recession,
To tame a sensex's green life
or destiny's untold vestibule for those women,
Blonde, brunette, redheads and and many many more species
who knows if they explore variety with stacks of corporate cash,
Spice of life may be;
for the one messy melting pot of their recession,
You are thrown to have life as a bubble
when in cleavages of ransom interest ignites,
The shoddy shores of no confidence and losses irreparable
and something called relationship fetches you cold heart,
Smell of many panties for the bull's share
and yummy bras for the bear's,
Your done up passions now captured
and now all hounding them to be colonised;
Is that a woman?
Is that your woman?

In the clubs of London
stagnating life into weekend's heavy boozes,
You smell off the pigeons
thinking they are clay-clad and you are the gun,
The sodium of your brain fails the rotten smile in your face
the eggy difference between day and night,
Refuting freshness in love
in the face of fleshy-flashy-freaky-freedom;
Deadlocked in passions' dormancy the dead hours of night
and when morning comes its all the attorneys,
Claiming off the heroic darkness dropped in the day of a rapist
to tell how well you endure time, money and energy
you think yours and they are not,
Is that a woman?
Is that your woman?

Rishav Rastogi
18/08/09