The Perfect Pain Poem by Ayan Dasgupta

Sometimes it comes to me, walking along the sidewalks of Lindsay in lone summer evenings – times that are just for myself - my long felt urge for passionate crimes - nonsensical love to strangers having yellow teeth - the wanton for Isolde to come and a Tristan to emerge out of recognition with all unfathomable desires, unexplained blemishes and invincible perversions of an ultimate lover!

I walk down the choppy streets grazing through those no good shops, the frustrated hawkers masturbating with their bundles in crowded corners
And
Relentlessly with dogged passion, all the way for a hope - infect – impale or get impaled – blessed or tortured - eyes burned to jelly and tongue dragged out!

Where do you get the perfect pain?
Blood and gore – fetishes and flies – ants and artichokes – I look and continue to do so beyond judgment and divinity, with the nose of a mangy hound in heat…