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


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)

Twitter
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
Pinterest

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!


A Poet’s Sanity

Tumblr site. This person has collected some really beautiful, old photos. This one is not the best example---but it came up as the only pinnable image.
Pinterest

Do not cross your doubts in my face of trees
Humongous rocks piling and shattering altogether
I am a cloak of shadow, hiding and humming chants
to release my sanity, blue waters of Mediterranean hunger
Clap my soul, and find the twinnings of pieces of glass
Fixated on the roots of my birthplace, insanity clamours.

Reds and Blacks
beneath
the sheets of night,
Liquor and it’s all forms
enticing and questioning
I knock my mind, to check the sanity
and words perch like a thick rope
entangling and pressing my blood,
knots and knots and knots
I check for my sanity now each day
for people melt into my mind, askew drawings
and then question my sanity.


©MVS

Into You.

I ate you like the black spot of the moon
splitting the silence
and dissolving the quietness
in the peaches and apples,
I asked your thorn too
with an ebb blooming onto my eyelid
softness cracks, butter lips
Jupiter, Mars dancing
I ate you still, coating myself with wax
I see you behind the slick cotton sheets
where memories slap my tongue
I see you, Yes…I do.

I thrive and wrap and surrender
my soliloquy white silence
in the flash and soils
and I see still myself sinking deep
into your coconuty eyes.
A conjuncture of Aurora,
Repeat, repeat, repeat.


Introducing New Blood Into Ink Curator Devika Mathur: A breakfast of memory

Taking me in as a Curator of this brave magazine is extremely overwhelming to me.
Thank you Christine.

Blood Into Ink

Devika 1

Sky tripping oranges and bars of star-dust

falling in our frolic skirts.

My sister, I conjured the sustenance of despair and morality

with your apple pie and the almond milk shake.

I churned your spotted skin into my minty breaths

making our bodies glow in the collision of the moon.

I heard mama cry and my cat frowning on the neighbours

when my back was scratched and segmented into tiny fragments.

I remember we did not eat our Dosa or any other fancy dinner for multitudinous days

oh, my sister a week passed by in disconsolate tanned knots of your memory.

And I am still a shivering, paradox of myth.

Bifurcated, haunted.


Devika resides in India and apart from educating English she enjoys reading and writing anything raw and dark perhaps. A hater of hypocrisy and a staunch believer in love she loves solitude and often dances to express her emotions.
Her work has…

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About Survival

Watching the movement of emptiness sinking on my nostrils,
A part of Earth tremors inside my Corona of dismantling systems
With crooked pens, I still draw mundane loops of Reds and Black
Planets dance around my white waist
with slumbers of lilies stuck inside the windowsill
I leap and quiver, rebuking my seizure

For the numerous cracks now building under my blouse
Silhouette of Blueberries ruptures somewhere.
My eyelids become heavy and heavy
and the tears as my faithful companion
I sleep and walk and turn and weep.
Oh, my fingers shall be healed
and the knives of blood shall be washed
It shall be done.
It’s how we Survive.


©MVS

A Wall of Separation

Street Style Through History - Street Style of the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s

Understand this.

That I am afraid of the sunshine that sticks to my forehead often

ringing darkness as its ghost, or the beam of the heavy eyelid

The mannequins of transparent aches I have

Throttle the rim of my soft neck, and my skin sinks

in the reds and blues of waterfall reverse.

My fingers might chip and my dress might slip

Vertically in the horizons of your wide eye

Understand this.

The spots under the cleft of my chin are misty scars if you see

Defeated. Mended. Hands of the clock.

Times of quietness sticks to my mouth always, seeking a surreal cryptic language

Understand this.

I eat this paw of time, drinking the remains of memories

and then spawl, scorch, make a night- shift.

I conjure your breaths like papers of old Poetry onto the

cracks of my lips, my jawline to seize you in this verse

Understand this.

I am paranoid, choking on pills and pills and some more pills

I am an overrated drug of numbness and quietness,

biting the hollows of my palm.

Oh dear, Understand this.

©MVS


 

 

Memories

image- self

The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

Illusion

what a cold star i would make. — 	seven word poem // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

In the hush moments of orange silence
A war between scissors and wet lips occur
where this smoke burns my tongue and vapours of half abstraction arise
A deluge of storms and black skins float, black is favourite.
Between lights and array of point blank, something goes missing
Between my white thigh and quarantine of delusions, my toothaches
A series of corpse surround my waistline, delphic view of sorrows drip
smoke burns the truth, I spill the scars like a needle piercing my susceptible skins,
A burning wall of benumbing silence churns inside my mouth.
Vexation, annihilation, perception.
And the rest is all illusion.


©My Valiant Soul

The Ghost is back

Apprehensions sink in the dark cloudy layers

like the kohl of my waterline, the kohl of my heart

I am a clown or that saint of the temple, for people misjudge me

With deposition of tears, I shall settle too

in the obnoxious satin walls of turbulent words

Something swells up on my neck, triangles and diversion.

Trepidation. Trepidation.

The wax of candles is stuck to my mind,

dripping anger or illusion

the folds of my bedsheet recall my tear

perfectly imbued with the corrosive words, the abuses.

I decay again.


It’s all blue on Visual Verse

I did not feel like writing today as I am annoyed and a lot more but was happy to see my poem published in Visual Verse for the month of January. The collection is freaking awesome, not even kidding.

If you want you might check my work here. It’s not that bad I guess.

_MVS