He had me for the next few hours like a missing crack from the cloud. A circle of memories sewn in the skin and mouth. We had kissed like cushions melting. Beyond, him my poetry never extended to a third eye. All these years we kept alive each other, lotus defying the existence of swamp. We licked butter from each other’s dripping mouth and lips. Sanguine ways tethered onto our veins and body. We have clicked our arms like a daydream. Fireflies evolving inside our eyes. He counts my finger and mark my tenderness with his territory. It’s luscious. My cadaverous toenails covered in his manliness disappears in a land still oblivion.The river outside flatters and stagnates. He has watched me all naked when I combed my auburn hair, sat and wept. Ataxia does cringe your body and makes it epileptic, mind eating heart. He had seen it all.
His sky blue eyes never lied to mine. Flapping, moist love still rocked the yellows and blues of the sky. I did shatter and chanted obscene thoughts and became a hoop of despair and congruent potent clay. Our walls and ceilings have witnessed our lips sulking and eyes moistening like a sunflower confirming the sunrise. A yellow brawny confirmation. Beliefs do that. They incubate your soul with a tale carved like poetry. Rainwater instilling magic and a clear view. Cobwebs disappearing
And I dedicate my whole galaxy-stellar body, with moisture intact to him.
Whispers: A tale of my forlorn soul to my fingernails
A point of truth occurs on my sordid laps,
I had enough of alcohol, enough of pills now
Fatigue, disappointment, Dropping ink,
Like a spot of timid bee,
my back scratches the pain of black paint,
spawling I am dwelling outside the cape of unknown and the known
Travelling graves and the faded stars
Beneath duality, a layer of another transparent air exists
Cubes of salt and granules of sugar
Sip, slap, gulp.
Hush, my thoughts are evolving back and forth
oh, forth and back(tapping the drums,
The breakfast I prepared stinks tonight,
I will eat the dinner in the morning.
The circumference of my naval is lit yet again,
There are stories piling inside, Stacking of memories,
the throbbing of outnumbered voids.
Silence, noise, silence.
I am silvered and stickered
in the blue’s of despair
hunting my scalp
down to the ankle stain,
For the roads are a summer breeze
tropical, slapping my coarse breast
the humming is repetitive.
like insanity clicking
Viscous walks defy my extinction.
The roars and shouts, scrapping my last
single bit of blood
my last single ounce of sleep.
my last single mouth of chalks and blackboard.
My squinting eyes evolve and illuminate the seeds and seedlings of us. Germination and hibernation. It’s stillness spinning on my cracking bones and lips. Thunders push forward my footprints, marking sand and sand-dunes of time like a canopy or translucent umbrella of opaque dreams. It’s treacherous. Banal and vixen kisses to tell you. The door-knobs even pique and cringe if this bellybutton delivers abhorrence of time and scars.
I have been bitten and marked. Denouement spoke to my tongue. I had a liquid conversation with the hinges of my black bed and cottons of white pillow, it scared me like a colossal tornado.I had inexplicable seizures that year and was hustled with a silver spoon to keep me alive. And I survived and lived.
Sustenance mingles with the Universe to crack your spine always.
I tasted salinity and guns. With thorns and lotus opening up in my callous floral palms. These small, little white palms.
Tides often slow down and flush waters only after a big cyclone. And, I learned something.
What intrigues my eye the most is the sweetness and copious jelly myths of the world. A truth about death and beauty. Shapes genesis hoodwinked as orange sunsets, leveraging. I form petty diluted circles of observance hanging outwards from my malice thighs. A point of dissatisfaction. Itching of my eyelids emphasize that.I become a murmur retracing my vintage memories and an array of laughter. Is that real?
Pain makes you semi-liquid. Oozy and dropping.You want to lick its hard mahogany slurps and burps, you fail. There is a point of indifference arising in the lines of palms and ankle. The resistance. The stagnation. The repetition. Mollusc scalded and halved to bear fruits and offsprings. Offsprings of delusions and love. And a linear equation is formed like a stack of memories stored in the jar from a lush garden. So, is this real?
Meera drinks nectar like an inconspicous child. With a bowl dipped in sugar lime soda. She travels around your iris,swallowing apples. All at once. The windowsill fades aways as she drops her clothes on her mosaic, transparent floor. Refraction delivers prejudice. A moist floor. A lady bird walks in an old fashioned way to sip her hollow images. Meera is an Ecosystem of sins and sins. A tapestry cracking.
She wears a deep mauvy bindi to discard her ebony scared patches of dead dreams.
She is like a shadow of an unlit oil lamp, threading a map of disgusts and soft lust onto her soft skin.Her outer skin defines mangroves and thunder. A cobweb.
Asphyxiation of dark charcoal, burning.
A soft kiss on a lover’s forehead. Squeaky.Gentle. Her body, a holy chant. Silent words plunged deep into her heart like an owl’s glance in austere darkness. Sharp.
She floats her arm in the void air and she becomes a forbidden territory. Demarcation.
Meera rests her heavy eyelids near your sequin moth- like mouth with a prismatic mirage of loops. As if she knows you.Her tampered electronic voice.
Her orange rusty elbows.
Pickle paradise rests somewhere in between her lofty legs, harrowing.
Her skewered jawline defining her rumpled life.Roads of distress.A conjunction of poets.
Meera is like a clay-ball. Elastic. Absorbing and sinking in her sickness and lies. Lies of trivial sagging head spins. All lies.
Summer breeze collides her eyes and fills her sloping toenails with antique emotions.
Meera is an art. A wooden box of pixie dust. Incensed with crisp secrets and desires. She floats with her semantics of time, piled like a silver stack of spoons.Galloping her fears, she puddles the dirt each day. May be that’s her crime.
i know the formations
when i had your face
close to my lips.
voids went flickering
with aerospace dissolved
in the hymns of my carrot eyes
i tore up the blatant sky
that rummage your body
and your smell,
for i sleep with my eyes
dipped in your presence.
Soft balls of cotton inside
thundering my long legs
all about your hair-locks
all about your language of love.
I become vintage inside
your dewy arms and moles.
Your words, temple bells.
The whiteness of a damp canvas
augments as my pupil cries
for a slick kiss to form knots.
Knots of bond. Memoirs.
I have a strange connection with the explosions of emotion. Almost like blueberries erupting amidst the chaos. Paintings cracking.Mirrors and silhouettes chanting the holy Ramayana and feathers of frolic rivers wrapping my bare skin. My “mudras” define my heavy incantations entwined in red and white prayers. It’s the cascading of dead screams on my blue-lipped language of Gods.
I swim in the melancholy of blues and black that guides my further footsteps. It’s all decided. My movements quick as a white furry rabbit and often stagnant.
It’s a pattern that hangs from my loose neck floating till the horizons of sunsets and a pause that declares my feminity. I offer my body to the Gods.
This whirlpool of eye winking throbs my heart and seduces my inner self to the pits of unseen footpaths.
I step forward and pick up the fresh lotus, the rain. I summon the entire Universe and romance with the hails. The broken emotion clings to my soul like a
studded canopy of colourful beads. All dropping to the floor, one by one.
The process of collection fascinates me too. It’s a real magic what my eyes speak or what my hands perform. Ribbons climbing my bosom to perform the beauty of the Himalayas. My salutations defining the love for nature. I become poetry almost, in patterns and sterling formations. I evolve with my flow of Bharatnatyam steps, it is divine. I speak to the unseen presence.Hallucinations run down my spine in reverberating roots of silence. Catharsis needs no flow of medium, it happens naturally. Ultimately.