Tarun Cherian Biography

Let my words have an unvarnished feel to them. Truth writ in the grain. Sentences that feel like bark and offer comfort like a bench after a long walk into the hills with a woman.
...

Dear Juliet, beware the snore,
the farts staining the underwear thrown on the sideboard,
the flowers not given, the 7th child, the daily bread...
surely they can kill more surely than the knife, the feudal hatred.
...

Sometimes I lie down on a stone bench in the park
and look down at the sky,
and I think if I let go I'll fall like a leaf
past the trees and slow into the clouds
...

Imagine a summer storm iridescent with lightning, only it happens in your body. And the lightning we were talking about? Well it isn't lightning either. Is more the deep content of a child massaged by his mother's fingers, the wine-heady satisfaction of a Sunday afternoon, the sensual slowness of amber honey lazily trickling, the curious stirring of a lover's tongue, the rippling dissolve of a half an hour orgasm, the fierce knowing of a prophet's eyes, sprinkled with volts. It, whatever it maybe, ripples up my body with exquisite slowness. Sparkling fingers touch, turning each cell dense with orgasmic incandescence. It moves with grass-suffused slowness,

Flickering-gold beneath lily pads, one may call chakras. Now nibbling at the toes. Now hyalescent fins moving at the crown. Circles on circles, of dancing children {only you can't see the children}, of molten gold {only you can't see the gold}.
...

They are there
even though they are gone.

They can visit
...