Autumn reminds me of things untouched, glass window, stains on the broken leaves, cup and cigars, molasses of thunder I bend and whiff the rosemary bowl of smells, incessant yearning smell of dear darling a voice of hypnotic fluid, lush green in my blood Chewing lemon grass like an ant of wisdom, i pick and collect theories of autumn love, (i have been dying already autumn summons now) People say a thing is beautiful, if loved and so i ingest this orange season of cruise and clumps, like a cluttered bun- knot, my injured knee pain. A canticle to slip in my dreams, slender like the shape of my body.
scissors of tongues missing
like threads sewing volcanoes.
And my lazy tears twist my body like valleys.
I sip pain,
i see pain.
I hear and live pain(patterns corrosive)
With footsteps entwining my jawlines.
A narrow gauge of breaths and pool of sadness
this moment doe that abrupt epilepsy to me,
this dark hollow night,
underneath the white sheet of smiles,
a monster hides.
Each day is a delusion,
my words and poem a levitating hue of cry.
The modal of life explained in a Polaroid,
i might die writing this last piece,
softly, like autumn i shall moult,
into a panorama of white skin
hanging loose, pale parchment paper.
a breathless wildflower of atoms falling.
a cold sliver slap of time,
i sense darkness, in a pool of parched lips,
eyes shut, heart shut
limbs shut, mind shut.
and there i am
a wallowing question of an existence,
kneading a rope of knot
Once again, i walk in portions,
an adamant sustenance of life..
My voice is a purgatory lie.
a solemn inhuman thread of existence,
the voice of this teeth crackling,
fingers going numb during cold shaky nights.
moist, stinking, moist language of nights.
A honeysuckle stung of a tear marking my white body,
flowerless, wavelengths of blurred nights again and again
you come and sit inside my skull,
you will perhaps have boneless maps of jitters.
And humans stink.
they stink like an abrupt old fist.
Mouths of dry saliva. Hollow and hopeless.
A frenzied attack of humans is like the orange peel.
you wish to unveil the skin,
it pokes your eye like a stencil.
And my mind talks to my heart,
in endearment still unknown
of soiled tattered sheets of oblivion.
Elis has a paper ball texture, crisp and crumpled veins of love. Her nakedness is the march towards the fruits of springs, countless motions of time. Her liquid lips, cryptic to herself. She neatly defies the existence of frailty.
The frailty of summer’s hope and frailty of meadows spring.
The heaviness of swamp and linguistic seizures weighs her down, sinking her hand and arm. Missing parts of reality. A cocoon of dissatisfaction. A body of uncountable heavy eyelids. Elis does not speak of her curves and eyes, she dedicates her body and sacrifices her tongue. Rituals of greys and blacks.
Elis curls up her lips like a slice of burning orange peel. Her breaths, heavy, dissected, summoned like a stone eating her tongue. Her thigh eating her faith.
Elis craves and prays. For solitude to be her only stay.
©Image and words -MVS
you will find ink blurb, parched words,
acoustic in air,
a hot burning potpourri
and my ink romancing with words.
this is what i will leave when i die-
a torn cloth, stinking souvenirs,
words like thick and sick stick to my tongue,
a concave road of anxiety on my wrists.
for i had no people in my pockets,
i had no eye contact,my conversations with stars
made me fall in love with the moon,
and its dark now, nocturnal love.
between the lampshade of lips and my porcelain lips i carry your honeycombed shadow like a lust covered body, screaming in rose love i have a reason to lick your face, your breaths in ways flickering Beneath the mole of my chin, a night rests it slithers a square black fit like an earthquake, an earthquake Metaphors of sun and moon lies in my womb, my place of sanity inside me choking with your love a surreal slip of owls & hunters clambering unearthed lilies You are blue. You are grey. You are colourless. Mine. i have a reason or two to bite your pages, the books of love Phantom protrusion of amnesia. Pills of intoxication Bay of Bengal splashing my bosom drop by drop, with chills neurotic A wasp breaths and moans slitting a thread. I have my reasons, darling to love you. Ambrosia twirls like a cocktail thick mouth swarming of dreams, filling the cracks, the walls, the ceilings, the mouth the feverish body. I have a thousand reasons darling to love you now.
i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.
I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming.
Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.
I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.
i can’t mend thing’s perfectly
like a soothsayer in my vagina
asking to rise- a phoenix of morality
but i cant do a thing flawlessly you see-
i have a thing forsaken to blend
with another skin of my body,
cerulean dreams of raisins and chestnut
i am black
i am broken,
pieces jittered in a jigsaw game
so i can’t cook food for you,
neither i can wash sublime clothes,
naked your soul-let it be ah!
my fingers are flaky,
monsoon in one part of the world-
unrest in a soliloquy of dreams,
yes i bleed while sleeping, morose cryptic ways
yes, i am numb,
sour apple jam to lick and throw.
I am all of that,
like a lotus in the salina.
Skin is music
skin is lyrical,
regenerating faces of loss
and i cling to it till
i drop my ashes to rest.
©Image and words of MVS
i write about words flipping. An austere silence of white spot.
where my mind slips like a star, a container of things.
All things small. All things big.
Sunflowers. Mirrors. Was basins of sins. A sliced layer of a tongue.
i keep things safely like the moon keeps tides.
Often my body expands, and i talk about hallowing point of death.
A blue stigma of turgescent smell.
I write about broken ceilings, tip-toed pain seeping inside.
And numb arms floating. I am a collector of things.
I collect people. From the sideways of my pupil.
Under the quietness of my skin.
Infestation. Indentation of stains.
each finger comprises a twig of pain :loss
you count one, and a pit is created,
Countless movements of scales.
Countless movements of corpuscle.
I take the final drop of blood
lurking through the moments of us,
between the cotton moisture,
between the untold air, humid.
I become a ball of loss and regeneration.
And i write about geography instilled with hushed voices.