Meera and her ways-#2

Meera does not hesitates to flip her hair in a motion of fabricated stories. She digests the moon and the tales like a wildflower growing. Her insanity is dreams and clouds, firm and evaporating. She sleeps with her open moist lips, dripping pain, violent way. Meera is system of crystalline chunks. Chunks of pepper and sugar, all god-like. Eating donuts of memory and fables of tattoo, Meera decodes her leg movements, her lipsticks stains of your shirt, on my shirt. She trembles to bleed, yet she camouflages in an aerial dandelion. Charred scars sits like an uninvited birthday on her spine, her bosom tender and flat.

She eats moss and drink moth in her drunk eyes. Eyes of iterative smiles, often Swollen tubes and tunnel swings beneath her thought machine, to define the process further. She is a bouquet of peanuts and a container of butterflies, a lavender incense in her throat. Needles of time chew her lips, she ages like an eye-shadow, with a question of fermentations still. Afraid of love & lust, slippery of tongues and knives makes her go mad. She is insane, I said that though ! The deluge of starfish in its own cobweb, that’s her. Agony atops her lavish heart, carnival today..carnival tomorrow like pristine flakes of squalid flux days eating her emotion.

Read the first part here.

©MVS


See- through -this- mind

I tried closing my pale eyes, like a water-chestnut dipped in currents and oceans
to put some relief on my maniacal themes, running like a sleep- walker. I converge, and dilate like music of light to imbue the monotonous sickening truth of your eyes. The sickening and sickening and sickening spit of your mouth.

I know it’s your zig-zag thousands salts of despondency, blur like a haze or an abstruse hook of pills and lies. Is it too bad for you? Or you want to dissect my ribcage, with a shovel of time. Spandex face, your smile a myth. I want you to change the sheets of my bed, change its theme and its moist forlorn tales. Could your reverse the pills and dig a choir of bursting waves of illusions & smear the sunken hope on my lips of mirror? They might crackle, if you run. They might become a figment of silver sound, lost yet found. Could you reach me out?
Like oil- dyed bodies collapsing and wondering. Like valleys & wine sticking to the mountains. Could you see it?


©MVS

NaPoWriMO#28

Eyes of Words

Sylvia Plath
Pinterest

No, I don’t write to cherish your cotton melodies.
An orange boy sleeps as I write and decorate my pages with
mannequins of moist thoughts.
There is a broken periphery as my words, letters unfurl the unsaid.

The corrosion of tanned face, the bleeding of fingers
onto this sheet that absorbs my coconut ink, seems seamless to me.
I don’t write to make you believe in my writing,

Fuming naphthalene skies, beneath my words
Iterative slumber happens. A baby is born.
Like ferns and twists of my tiny arms and twists
my words open, a reverie. A Hypothesis.

And so I don’t write to write. My fingers disintegrate and I ripple again.


Cups, stains& cigars

I can fill your china cups with vintage memory of us. Where, i see you sipping my lips through the window sill, like a drunk sky & the tipsy moon. In the hitched- run of mundane lives, i drink your cheeks and mole, your legs & fingers like a mulberry pancake, frost often frozen. I like it that way.
i chew your scars with razor- electric nights of thor and acids. I do it anyway.

With a heart of a sun, i flip into your arms, cascading moments of dreams & dreams. Our bodies going wild fire, scratching depths to know the inner depths. The complete forest is lit.We run like mad currents, diffusing slivers of unborn kisses and future rain. We make love like the Himalayas, dwindling with the Pines or something more surreal. Something soft & crisp,the winds, the freedom . All knitted in my precious womb, my
place of togetherness. My thighs dance, magnets sucking my skin to cling me more. It speaks to me about your vintage cups, stain and cigars.
oh, i must be drunk now to sniff your vintage white shirt.

©MVS


The way- I am

do you remember the blues
penetrating my veins
of penumbra stoic
sheets?
your cutting voice of thunder
like a thorn poking
my chiselled neck & colour
my white skin turning weird
a stinking smell of appearance
& a missing map between cities.
cities of loss, cities of despair.

And i danced in the hollows of horizon
where liquids formed circles of numb rain,
you haunted me, ghost- like lemon peel.
and i peeled the layers, still & obvious.
With mercury dropping, lightings of heart.

( I am a sun- soaked, mosaic formation of wilderness & weed growing under your chin)

©Image and words- MVS

#NaPoWriMo#25


How I count my soul

a birthmark & a taboo
i am a lavish smile of smirk
you incubated me & my head
with soils of murder and hatred
sins of monster & coal of coals.
to kiss your dark soul
i swim like a starfish,
concurrent currents floating
inside my solitary knee-bone
see it, feel it, sniff it
chop it. chop it. chop it
it Shall again appear with
half sun and half moon rays.

like a starfish singing,
unveiling the balmy metaphors
crooked though plumbed
in your anxious fingers of blood
in your anxious mouth of dirt.


©MVS

NaPoWriMo#24

To my Virginia

Image result for virginia woolf

“Her heart was made of liquid sunsets”- Virginia Woolf

So, this is how it starts, backwards and forwards
A canopy of fire dwindling in the mercury stars of ocean
Routing the past weeds and merciless eyes

Imbroglio thunders often attacked me, I threw fits and seizure
on these wooden floors on the horizons of your body
and so much vomit, Ah!

But you see the endings do not end here,
My teardrop holds your bones and breaths
uncountable fantasies clinging my necklace
Prolixity of your memories often defeat the pendulum
I carry so much in my heart if precisely stating.

And so this is how it begins in the stardust and galaxies
where I calm my madness and powder my worries
dropping my heavy footsteps into the pool of oceanic torrent
The electric waves do teach me brightness and darkness if you must say
And my heart takes everything you spit on my bedsheet
My heart touches the ebb of mundane sunrises and sunsets
Still working the aftermaths, hurricanes, polemical truths.


P.S- Virginia Woolf’s writings are always resonating and mesmerizing to me. My words are only and only a small tribute to this powerful soul! She shall always be an inspiration.

®MVS


missing-breaths

How do you define my perforated body aches with meteors dissolving? It’s an harrowing scenario with blood screams, thunders stuck to my backbone. Lipids going haywire and my eyes swollen with a pool of tyranny. Nostrils flutter like vintage sheets of paper, obsolete in obscure point. A point of missing mornings and seasons.
Each night, i hang like a loose memory, thermometer and fever, clinging my spinal cord and striking deaths and sins of sinisters.
The autumn leaves wrapped to my bare skin,defying the existence of bequeathed lives I survived. The midnight burning oils & lamps. The clocks of death. And my earthly body.

I perspire like an old lady, clinging to the curtains of pink breaths. With a casket of stars & hope swallowing like an infant, I fight oh yes I do. I precipitate and conjure in my linings of thin mucus, coughing disgusts and disgusts.
How do you define my motionless body now?©MVS

NaPoWriMo#23


Whisper and the Roar- Collective

As already stated this is a collection of some profound writers and a web of survival stories that always make me proud. Proud of the fact, that I am part of this stunning community. The writings here are strong and makes you feel your bones like never before.

The writings not only intrigues one’s mind but also acts as a safe heaven for the survivors and the warriors. If you are a feminist or even a part of it, it’s the exact place for you and your tales.

The collective is currently seeking out for some RICH, EARNEST yet POWERFUL writings against Women exploitation and a lot more in honor of National Poetry Month. You can find the further details here.

Please do read the previous writings of our collective before submitting to Whisper and the Roar in order to avoid any rejection emails. We can be a bit choosey when it comes to some real writings. So give us some real voice, something that makes us go breathless.

Till then keep reading – the Whisper and the Roar!

MVS-

Curator of Whisper and the Roar.


Dead & lost

your fingers sweep saline dust
on my collarbones of dirt & dead hopes,
with figaments of knots, sordid closure.
ancient bells marking my face as salinity,
A staircase is kneaded inside my soft nerves,
my soft calves, my soft body..
the memory stinks & stuck
of you, of your black socks i slept in
your scent like vanilla sky,
enamored & ventilated, once

it’s a morbid tale of two now
Ships of lost city
with concrete desoltution
rubbing the corners of my thigh,
my plump breast, my void eyes.
it’s a tale people talk about now.
it’s a rotten sky now.

©MVS


Still Surviving

If you ask how am I today, I might tell you—

Darkness growling like the dead, a sad weed or a burned tree. My fingers ache each day
to feel the autumn on fire. Like mordacious nails, scratching the inside of my conjured mind. I know, you might feel nothing. Speechless?
Oh, pluck my skin, see the inner scratch, that is my scream.
Hidden in the ball of vexation, my lips drifting apart, to say thy name.
My pale eyeballs feeling the dead dreams. Oh, how dark, can you see?
I am a hideous soul of stale flesh and paralysed hymns, still surviving.
I am stale lotus blooming in the eyes of the razor-layered body.

©My Valiant Soul


Madhouse- body

Your belligerent electric eyes
of swamps and tea bags
like vapours & death
picking my hair strands
to dissect me further,
oh you, mouth of monster
& shadow of half-naked moon.

i lie on my bed & count my reverse
motionless screams, words, screams
here in this room of death & poetry.
chapters of skin peeling, numb iris,
transparent lips of missing skies
i forlorn my ankles
of you and me.
and shiver the scoundrel body.
for this body is a madhouse.
like a concave arm of wax
dripping insanity, clocks
bells and words crooked-pungent.

©MVS-words

#NaPoWriMo-20


nights that talk of you

A mesh of poetry ascends in my scalp of lights
the place punctured by your visits often,
in my nocturnal nights of anxiety and suicides.
You step on to my body, peeling layers
of SCARS\ and you watched POETRY\
C A S C A D I N G
in molten, mountain flush of hours.

I am not dead if that’s what you mean—
There are splinters of time and flower
the raw ageless faces of skin,
goblet eye of evil-
here moon meets sun,
and earth meets my soul
it’s a travesty of you and me
rather than what you did to me.

I have seen the postcards of vintage ink
our lotus bodies sinking like air,
tropical destinations, with kisses side by side
I ate your nails, your fingers, your dirt
defying existence of deads & deads.
Now, my finger bleeds fungus,
crochet of inhuman trepidations.
I still hang you in my mirrors
behind my bed, behind my eyelids.
I still see your insanity

C A S C A D I N G

©MVS – NAPOWRIMO#19


Entrance

READ about: THREE RIVERS DEEP book series on FACEBOOK @ https://www.facebook.com/threeriversdeepbooks?ref=aymt_homepage_panel  ***A two-souled girl begins a journey of self-discovery...   (pic source: https://www.pinterest.com/freepeople/fleur/ )
Pinterest
Between your dewy lips and wet time
 I see clocks of white hills
 humming skins, throbbing breaths
 pure, symmetrical breaths.

Inside the tempestuous wilderness
 of your eyelids and thumbnail
 A reflection of paradise exists.

Once again, the frozen earth erupts now
 holding chills, heat and rains all inside
 sulking the primordial fights
 and blossoming tiny weeds of hope.

In the moisture of inks and skies
 Indexation of our inundated words occur
 Hysteria, Incantations, Contentment

™My Valiant Soul

Hunters-Down

I’ve been ripped and raped
with ferocious water ripples,
knives-steel cracked
Blood- bookmarked souls
rummaging through my skull
black&grey, still, molten.

The people are stale and ash
clicking wet tongues
eh,eh,eh,eh
dipped in morgues
and shadow of the death

With spits of fungus and moss
decoding their faces of hunger,
the world is a shit hole
anger and anger.

This place is a hoax
and a drop of glinting blood
on your chin,
on your hands,
on your rose opening.
The violence eats you
mental brewing of skulls and cracks
and this polka dot frocks, skirts
ripped and raped.

©MVS


heart-a -staircase

desire••••

I could dissolve and dismantle both in your arms. Your concave dripping horizon. Here, sweet nectars of a word, alliteration efflorescences. Poultice killing ant-eaten wound. I put my oblong waist inside your palms to catch the last nights fits and sins, sinister. You breathe effortlessly, like a paper chewing the drops of rain, steadily and I watch you smoking naked. I shrink, cinnamon fingers dipped in writing as I paint you in my slivers of lost chills. I see you marking my territory, with hazelnuts and pepper, cracking one by one. You announce me your wild bitch.The galaxy ruptures between your words and my forehead mole. We are all sinners.
loss••••

I am awake, in the cauldrons of your magic that rubs my backbone, similar to the mountain ranges romancing with the sunshine. The spikes and fumes drove me madcap when my arm flew in the vapid motionless air. It was your A B S E N C E. The air balmy and dead. I roamed naked and baked naked. with my face sagging beyond the levels of my bosom. It was Saturday and your A B S E N C E.
healing••••

And, it is a fixation now. Crystal studded your eyes with my silhouette, marrying my body from that broken pale toe to my hair. I circle and hover my dandelion legs to sense the reality, the sun-baked air filled with our fabled romance and memories. The room is a temple and this is the reality.


image and words©MVS- Something new that I tried!

NaPoWriMo#17