Sushrut Munje writes how a person is audacious poetry, complete enough to make sense, incomplete enough to intrigue. People are beautiful, & some even more so.

Compilation of Hotness

Sushrut Munje writes how a person is audacious poetry, complete enough to make sense, incomplete enough to intrigue. People are beautiful, & some even more so.

It is a rainy evening, full of conversations and good work, on my brand spanking new wooden desk. Cradling a cold brew throughout, my delicate sensibilities have been on a high. The music isn’t helping, and I find myself drifting away. Skimming through what I’ve written over the last few months, it’s startling – the passion that has gone into these sentences. I forget most of the things I write. I forget the intensity experienced till the words are read again. This compilation was meant to happen.


When the moon shines bright, it’s a good night to fall in love. Her words set the tone. Do you smell the summer spice in her hair? Feel the wind hug you in its entirety, and her. When the scent of the night flowers lays insistent, it’s a good time to fall in love. Taste the rain, do you, it comes like she does, slow and heavy, wet and thirsty, you gasp like you have never had.


Feel it soar again, the flutter audible, much like her heart when you whisper in her ear. Fly away into the starlight as if there is no tomorrow, make love by the open sea, sing like the nightingale and kiss her glow of the moon. Her lips would be sweeter than the sweetest song ever written.

It’s poetic to love a poet

It’s poetic to fuck a poet. The mind is everywhere and here with you. Bravery in a spoken word. Melody in a verse that twirls, limbs entwined, thrown against the wall of our own words, mixed in the morning giggle, soaked in wet love.

It’s poetic to love a poet. Every moment would find its own crumpled page, a shy scribble, a long gaze at the moon. Wings would sprout for an earnest flight into the unknown, with sincere excitement, hands held tight as time is explored and space understood.

A Tracey Emin blares out how poets like you should fuck poets like me. Depths exist to dive into. Shallow pleasure exists for a regretful afterlife. But espresso tempts and poets indulge.


This stove makes soup, not an espresso, because it’s dinner time as we camp by the forests of promise, just like you brought home the warmth of a homemaker instead of the wild beast I was hoping to find. You made sweet love, but I wanted a storm. You gave me a smile, when I wanted naked desire in your eyes. You only hugged when I sought to be possessed with the madness of a poltergeist. Burn the bloody forests down, my love, and then let’s make it rain. Burn the world down, make me quiver with pleasure in the dark.

Hidden Moments

The hint of a smile that you let slip. A wink and a glint in your eyes. Trembling fingers as you hold it close, a hope, nurtured till the time you find ways to describe what you felt when the eyes went dark yet the heart grew warm and a tiny spot in your tummy throbbed with ecstasy. When your hair just wouldn’t obey as they fell over your eyes and you brushed it aside not wanting me to miss the dripping honey of your gaze. I was everywhere at once then, yet standing there in a verse, as you engulfed the night.

Once Upon a Time

When we first met and drew our first morning, I remember adding the grey of a mist, it was the riddle I sensed. But you drew a rainbow, it was a laughter of the day. Then I added a dark brew, for I knew you have layers. You sketched waves and unraveled with a smile. Further I probed with a burst of acrylic on canvas yet you insisted on watercolor, stressing that you are but a bubbling rivulet. But when I held you close while dancing on a Jazz vinyl, I knew I was holding a storm that has been tamed, an ocean contained, the art of centuries deciphered, a mind that had me for its own, for now.

Fumble Mumble

A hurried question, a breathless kiss, glance at a watch, hesitate, feet shuffle, a car whooshes by on a moonlit street as you take off on a fantasy flight to the highest fucking cloud above you and him and the wet air and you are back in that moment again. Blush of a summer in December, fumbling with the words which seem right, speech is a bitch when eyes do the talking.

The Pursuit

You are in pursuit of the perfect verse. She stirs, she moves, she bounces off the walls made of air you have built. Lost in your delusions. Crumpled like your sleeves. Musty like your books.

And she turns and flies right into you with the passion of a cannonball. You see why the cat dies. You see why you lived. You see your hands black with ink. You feel her perfect gasp, and the firm grasp, for she has you now, and she has you naked. She won’t have it any other way.


Hand me that glass of wine, this song is divine, loopy ribbons, goofy tunes as we clamber on to the high skies. Hand me that guitar, let me learn how to play, the strings are a joke and on the grass we lay, on that winter night, dreaming of the sun so far away. Hold my hand, keep alive that wonder in your beetle eyes. Let’s fly.

You are You

I know what you are, a metaphor, a poem, a mirror and a gentle ear. At times, my worst fears or my wet fantasies. You are my paper boat in the puddle, my hand shielding eyes from the sun. You are the jacket that I pull close on a cold night, and the odd note out of tune when I sing. You are the marshmallow in my hot cocoa, my toothache at the worst possible moment, what I nibble on when we make love. You are my stare, you are my giggle and everything I hold on to. You are everything I love, and everything I made myself hate. I made you. You are my person.

What are my words

Pure structure, on paper, written as I deem it fit. Not asking you to listen to my tone, the gentle scratch of my pen lies abandoned, so does my warm gaze which might cast a quick look on how your hair falls over the shoulder, and how you tuck it away over your wee pink ears. You don’t see any of it. What you do see, is a sentence, read by your own mind, the way it wants to. Intended to melt a mountain. Seeking permission, to hold your mind the way I would, in person.

A polite invitation, to a conversation. I won’t know how to dance, my poetry does. I cannot memorize the steps of a tango, but my poetry helps me remember the way I felt on breathing in your earthy musk and you giggled. Oh how you giggled and looked me straight in the eye.

If I Paint Her

She conquers a riddle. She dismisses a puzzle. As decisive as a block print, yet the mingling curiosity of a wave that pushes forth. She is the bird of dawn and twilight. Never the noon, never the night. She is a wildfire in a flame. She is a storm in a thundercloud. As intoxicating as fine wine, I often confuse her with a heady espresso. If I paint her, a single brushstroke would reveal a thousand colors.

On Artists and Beautiful Dents

“You have to be damaged to create art. Damaged, but within reason.”

“You think I’m damaged within reason?”

“Very much. A dent I’d be happy to kiss.”

“But you’re sure I’m damaged.”

“Beyond doubt.”

And she blushed.


It is a funny little thing.
No matter what we have grown into, it allows us to be silly with full abandon.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.