Souvenirs Of A Slut's Underarm Poem by Samyayan Chatterjee

Souvenirs of a slut's underarm
How does her fever smell?
Do you see her face?
Her pale gaze,
Oozing with indifference and certainly sick of your weak rhythm /
If not, then indeed, your attempts to reach Jacques lacan has left her burning, on a pungent bloody bedsheet /
Breasts still covered safely under an enigmatic embroidery, legs torn apart and hips hanging /
Very similar to any arbitrary post surgical scenario, concerning the lower abdomen /
Or
A butcher shop /

Why do you deny?
Why do you keep making a blue baboon of yourself? / The rusky whispers of railway tracks and how all your friends just wanted to take her to an ice cream shop/
Everyone, together at the same time /
Maybe taking turns /
Scribbled clearly on her skin but in Braille /

How can you not remember your audacious cries? /
Your bony brittle hair disturbing her throughout, your dead nail,
rotting /
A lot of larynxes groaning and growling, spoiling her shampooed hair /
Your audacious kingly moans and ugly stories of unpaid loans /
Touched a pair of tits and the indifferent slaps broke her inner cochlea /

Hence RECOLLECT!
For you have vacuumed the life out of her /
RECOLLECT!
For her last breaths were drawn by your monstrous jolts /
RECOLLECT!
Another lily, is on her way choke herself on water /
RECOLLECT!
It's never a suicide. Hence
RECOLLECT!
Pay for your noble ventures
as kings taught you nobility /
RECOLLECT!
And dagger down the king in you! /