NaPoWriMo #22 ekphrastic poem
And I stood there,
in the aisle of chipped yellow walls
rummaging through my thick skin,
about the last night.
the light of lovemaking,
the night of kisses and cigars,
how soft your body felt,
topaz like sunshine caressing my neck,
long afternoons of summer drinks and clouds tearing away,
something hung from the lampshades of my garden,
a memory, a perspiring flower of nostalgia.
I often walked like planets dancing on the earth,
thinking about you and your scars,
your shaded memory of vignette touch.
Everything is a dead-end, an endgame.
I always waited for you,
counting your time on my twenty fingers.
Envelopes of sequined eye gazing your arrival,
it happened in winters,
it happened in summers,
it happened again and again.
a chiseled knot of survival.
And now, I am done.
My body sweats like your skin did once,
chipping the bedsheets of nostalgia
Often I eat my own mind full of you,
trying to stick a mannequin inside my pharynx.
No, I do not wither away,
I am not a sunflower dying,
Ephemeral nights talk to me in a decent language,
slipping a thought of voice hidden somewhere.
You do not still evaporate from my orange lit mind,
you burn there, a lamp in a swamp,
feeding onto my naval of thousand skies.
I watch you there each day,
I do not speak.
I do not speak.
I sit and count you melting.
NaPoWriMO #20 I pray like a verbose lady, counting the shards of air, each night Five fingers, doused in liquids of magenta lipid a foreskin hanging loose, I pray like a cloud now. Full, and thick smoke i am colourless. a colourless eye of maple. I pray thousand times a day, to be normal. to swallow these walls. & i do it exceptionally well.
Change my atoms of body.
make a sin out of this floating skin.
A lotus. Inhale my vapours like a sun kissed windowsill.
A slice of moon sits on my neck watching your toes circling my platonic waist.
a waist that hold your liquids, your solids.
A moment of sigh and resemblance.
Make me your thread of conjectures of dreams and skins.
a poets habitual routine.
Slit my thigh, a green antena.
suck my thoughts, a spiritual dot.
a map depicts your mind, soft and beautiful, here.
Details emerge as a florescent green bush,
beneath my thumb of silver weeps.
Sip my thoughts. Decorate. Redraw my body.
Hold my toenail. Be careful.
Be careful, I might slip like a fallen star.
NaPoWriMo # 16
NaPoWriMo# 11 Point of origin
It began under the chalice of my mother’s yellow palm.
Point of absolute silence. Her womb carried me like lotus full of vignette scars.
There was a tingling whiff on my small eyes. I was born amidst the petals of soft kisses, soft scars.
A concave chin of mole and anxiety dripped. I had no mouth. My mouth got submerged somewhere in the lost voices. I grew later on like a cleaved peanut.
The rain entered my eye like a century of heavy screams. At times, I was golden, an arched brow of perfection.
I felt my body scattering to the noise of wind. My adulthood held my fingers.
Boys spewing an eclipse onto my face. The winds grew out of my stomach. I vomited like a twig curling and stretching to escape something.
The quiet pulse of white corona silenced my anxiety. I pondered on this reality now how to walk, how to sit, hot to twitch and ache.
An illusion of white farm often blinded me. Shook me.
I evolved like the sun swivelling the painted sky.
Murmuration of thin sheets of god like structure telling me to expand more and more. I became elastic. Sponges of famous time.
I watch those bird now, sitting in my balcony, those fuchsia music they make, it completes my broken system. That orange sky embossing my chest each day.
That open vacant air.
I watch patiently Himalayan snowflakes filling my empty cheekbones. The whirlpool of trees and the fruit they drop. It smoothens my eye for life.
A poet who stood in front of this eternity.
Ingesting walks of thousand of suns and moons.
Secured, the stretch mark of life is a beautiful thing
running through my rainbow body.
Whirl like topaz,
hear exhaustive voices, all like a mother-daughter relation.
Watch a point of Stagnation. Reverberation. Too much cold.
and carry the footsteps behind,
live, live like a flower on a naked body.
There are no cloying questions of life.
You will fail if you swallow life.
Don’t fidget about the atmosphere.
Observe these crazy annoying things in your mind.
Lillies blooming and dying.
Things as soft as a petunia.
Things are as dark as my mind.
Let them slip, oiled and kneaded
into the stack of insomnia and other wild things.
Do not think.
Conjunction of mind is a beautiful process.
So let it be.
Speed creating a sliced illusion,
you cant’ defy filthy chipped minds and nails.
Let the process of leaking begin.
Watch it once again.
How your body floats, finger evaporates up in the sky.
That glorious sky, now.
Watch it fall again.
Things that make you full.
Rains, flowers, mushrooms
bouncing like peals of laughter of unborn.
hear it… hear it again.
Let things crack in your small aperture.
There is this pond at the back of my backyard,
filled with kerosene and knots of pale moonlight.
I drink summer drops from the systematic cold windpipes.
There is a blurb.
Short. Precise. Like a mother’s gentle touch.
A glistening path of nothingness. Absolute silence.
Here, my body sits and watches the dance of the gods.
Dance of gods up in the sky, monsoon in winters.
I rest, I rest like an eternity on the vertex of this pause.