Memories are just memories

For memories does not spark my romance with life

Nor do they slip through the curtains of moisture.

All these years, even when I was a teenager,

I watered the dying roses and Orchids

Flushing a spew of lightning and rock salt

People became a mystery to me, leaving me stained

Behind the sturdy brown doors, a knobless door

And then began a veracious knitting

of words with emotions

I popped millions of pills, smoked cigars

Innumerable open wounds made me ugly, they said so.

Placid openings spewed disgust, Torrents powerful.

So, memories clasp you, twist and give a sudden twitch

They furl and embrace your naked soul,

Immersed in the droplets of blood and ink.

Memories are nothing but floating crisp memories.

©MVS

image courtesy- My Valiant Soul


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Spotting and Observing

If I saw a woman like this I'd say love yourself, respect yourself & remember you're a gift. image on imgfave

Today was one such day when I took my seizure pills and went to sleep

in the darkest of crisp floors of dreams and nightmares

with my cigarettes still burning, mouth full of water

In the turbid walks of women’s lane,

a niche of mirrored talks happened

with a soul crooked and cracked

Vinegar lips kissing Dracula fingernails and hope of stained floors

I feel stitches in my stomach, spewing out disgust arrays of unheard bone cracks,

It happened beneath the yellow door of my cauldron of thoughts and anger,

I was partially a dreamcatcher and partially a sleepwalker

Silence of Aurora fills my thin bone marrow

And tells me another tale of liquid voices, tales and dreams.

I gasp. Observe. Run and sleep and dream in circulation.

©MVS


Reverberating Words( A Collaboration)

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I am so grateful to Nandita for collaborating with me as I really adore her superb writings. She is truly gifted and a sweetheart.

Italics- Nandita


Hallucinations of clock hovers my hairline
dripping ink, dripping heart
in the truths and meadows of lost adventures
I shut my eyes, thinking black and grey music
I think of Chardonnay, I think of a vintage museum
Notions of time and space breathe fire on my neck 
I exhale mists of consciousness even as I 
I am lost in my own numbness, 
I am my own Alice in Wonderland, I pinch my nakedness
Reality tastes different from what I dream 
I shut it out, I sway in the music I make
I sip the hunger of my heavy eyelids
slowly and softly, like the flow of coffins
Emancipation, Satisfaction.
I drink the ambrosia of the blood moon
The nectar driving me to a state of nirvana 
Hysteria, satiation 
The blue’s of my ink and the black’s of my mind
reminds me of those chills and strawberry summers
I draw  a map beneath my fingers, and words come out
Stagnant words, Artless words, Words.
And I put my eyes and my hands swinging now
to meet the demarcations, to meet the oblivion.
Tangerine blood caresses ivory sheets
with azure strokes of tea rose and papaya whip
whisking though, in rainforest eyes, avocado dreams
I carve out impressions on my fingertips
I watch my amorphous words 
draw shapes and patterns from my nebulous existence 
While I become a pendulum to satiate my nothingness 
©Nandita Manan Yata and MVS


Methods and Ways


Let me sew your linings of solace
onto my blank, numb fingers
like the gasp of a saviour dreaming
Orange, Red Vibrancy
And I pour you into my wine glass
magenta and red my blood splashes
My mascara, discerning and colliding
and I dance and dance

I think of rainbows and you
where my world floats
like the catharsis of words
And I am Divine and Pious
With Intersperse threads of lust
I fill the hollows of my palm and ankle
I sink into your fulgent walls of ambrosia
The softness I eat and gulp.
This is how I worship you.


®MVS

As You Lay Dying

vintage glamour black and white photography couples | black and white, fashion, mirror, pearls, vintage eyes

How many dark spots do you have,

Lizards and crocodile scream

to see you knitting lips on lips.

Papers mock your hubris hands

Ruffles and hibernation

In the planets of chivalry

in the swamp of lies

I see your lies and eyes,

A corrosion of rock.

I am a piece of molten clock

and

Your dark fingers are bait

like burning of ashes

cold powder.

Burial grounds smirk,

vicious cigars, vicious you

Discomfort intrudes my throat

with swollen ebbs of a horizon

I am a distorted voice

to see your insane games

only

I am more rapturous to

see you dying.

®MVS


 

The Art of This-Body

Sidney Carter (Canadian,1880-1956) Portrait after Dante Gabriele Rossetti's The Blessed Damozel, ca 1906.  National Archives of Canada
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Helplessness running through the haze of clouds,
Hands swinging, liquified skin and slaps of salt grains.
I prick my soul, to check the shrieking
the altitude coincides with a marriage ritual
in the Altar, in the temple
Between the moist lips
The air halts, pause
and my skin kisses my eyes
Conundrum,    Abortion
Throbbing of mind, the paintings of my room cracks now
like the white eggshell
I drink the art of this moment,  quiet now
I rub alcohol and ashes on my face
Indexation and outnumbered faces,
I am colourblind, I am crooked, oh still I count the maths
I run until I fall to melt into the sand
and to begin my heavy footsteps again and again
My body is sinking, catch, catch.
It may fall like a sharp needle pointed towards the foothills
It may rise like shedding of words on paper
Catch, Run. Catch, Hold. Breathe.

©MVS


 

Submit to Blood Into Ink

realityayslum:  “ Fritz W. Guerin - Young woman, c1900.  … via ILL.REF (Tyler Wilde)  ”

Blood into ink is a safe place for all the unheard voices of Survival and brave souls. Anyone who has suffered the cruelty or has been traumatized can submit their writings to the submission page of this bold journal. We would love to spread your voice and words.

Its a place for all the courageous souls who feel the pain, who knows the thirst and want to express it through their voices. Please feel free to share your writings and in the same process read the work of our fabulous fellow writers. Their writings are breathtaking!