o’clock

I do not like generally what I read and I read a lot. But she is gorgeous.

Cereus Florus

We witness the birth of time.
Tonight.

The protagonist had lovers, whom she cannot name in an appropriate order. Probably, she’d arrange the memories in an erratic fashion.
Lovers.
Dreams.
Possessions.
Memories.
Suspicions.
Hallucinations.
Lyrical poems.
Traditions.
Religions.

The protagonist had lovers, lovers with whom she gave birth to moments. Time is born of lost moments, moments lost to the sinuous twists of life. Moments lost to the sinuous twists of existence. You cannot bear them. You cannot beat them.

Have you ever lost your way back to home?
Have you ever gone mad over the rumours?
Or maybe, the rumoured truth?
No?

Time cannot be felt, cannot be sensed until our heartbeats race faster than the heaviest void. The void sustaining time, in health and in sickness.

Time cannot be felt, cannot be sensed until we run short of breath. Slower than the particles sustaining time, sustaining lost moments.

View original post 72 more words

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how- i- live & die

a fallen atom ( calmed tones of a lullaby)
seeps into the skin of my arms, it’s frozen.
hear the nerves being crooked, a bellowing stoned mark.
what happens when this arm dissolves?
like a stubborn piece of cloth
vapours of heavy eyelid swings in the sky.
my mouth is hushed in pain and drama.
and i offer the petals of this body to the God of time,
(the god of sustenance)
i am a rebirth form of elasticity, for scars have expanded,
cloyed the slime heart of mine.
(it’s disgusting)
Words slip out of time, like unfit body parts
into tiny fragments of paranoia.
and i speak like a fool, i think like a fool,
i become a fool.

i sit like an orange patient time
outside, watching and dying
to cut your memory and worth and digest like this soil.
(the drama is in my eyes, the pallor of dropping bosom)
i watch an ant colony,
digging and breaking my monochrome knuckles,
this mouth is finally a bag of silent leaves.


a nameless flower

your skin is a lumberjack
my fingers pricking the whims of your touch,
a vacant room suspended on my white skin,
a chair of your voice,
screaming, aesthetic nerves of the saliva.

i enter your body like a prayer,
again and again with hand-picked chants.
I spread
like butter on bare body,
cold sheets of absent air
sitting on my nostrils like a forgotten star,

love fills the places of vacant walls,
walls leaking
and veins dissolving.
love does that all.

(if my title does not do the justice to the poetry, pardon me)


 

A swallowed truth/lie

Piquant Ray’s
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?


Book Review – Composition of a Woman – by Christine Ray

So excited for you, Christine.

Nicole Lyons

I was thrilled when the brilliant Christine Ray of Brave and Reckless asked me to read and review an advanced copy of her debut collection, ‘Composition of a Woman’, and let me tell you guys, you are going to want to mark your calendars for its July 31st release date! This book is fire, unbridled, out of control, glorious fire!

ChriComp Cover Design by Mitch Green

Composition of A Woman – Advanced Book Review

Christine Ray’s debut collection ‘Composition of a Woman’ is an extraordinary glimpse into the essence of what it takes to make, and sometimes simultaneously break, a woman as strikingly powerful as she is beautiful.

Christine Ray brilliantly split ‘Composition’ into five thoughtful sections that work together beautifully to deliver the maximum impact of each poem while taking the reader deeper into a stunning journey of the mind, the body, the very soul of this person…

View original post 302 more words

Book Review – Composition of a Woman – by Christine Ray

So excited for you, Christine.

Nicole Lyons

I was thrilled when the brilliant Christine Ray of Brave and Reckless asked me to read and review an advanced copy of her debut collection, ‘Composition of a Woman’, and let me tell you guys, you are going to want to mark your calendars for its July 31st release date! This book is fire, unbridled, out of control, glorious fire!

ChriComp Cover Design by Mitch Green

Composition of A Woman – Advanced Book Review

Christine Ray’s debut collection ‘Composition of a Woman’ is an extraordinary glimpse into the essence of what it takes to make, and sometimes simultaneously break, a woman as strikingly powerful as she is beautiful.

Christine Ray brilliantly split ‘Composition’ into five thoughtful sections that work together beautifully to deliver the maximum impact of each poem while taking the reader deeper into a stunning journey of the mind, the body, the very soul of this person…

View original post 302 more words

the-perceptions-of-life

the way i close my eyes is a seduction.
a clementine red prayer to my body,
with dark clouds. a sleepless child humming.
a black spot spinning in the sky, apparitions of liquid monotony.
it churns the limbs inside
with a mouth of lust.

there is a dark room of closed fists,
fists that shimmer red pain. Inside my mind of a blank page.
a white pure kiss hanging,
like a loop foreheads murmuring a word.

a seizure. a dream. I close my eyes, I see myself floating
alone in the lanes of words, a reverie of mists.
Flowers bloom inside my mouth. Knuckles of painted red nostrils.

This land is pious for I am unknown to myself.
i sneeze like a ghost
with my hands saying my uncanny dreams.
a concoction of love and death.
it’s here, speeding like a wasp.
we walk like ghosts,
sip and drink,
the arching thunders of time,
slipping softly.
hush and be quiet now. Be your own butterfly.


this moment- and me

prismatic broken words,
an uncanny stink of whiskey,
i have evolved like a bee
phosphorescent iron blood
a cloying stink of mirror
a rasp eye stinking,
a yellow pain often talks to me in slumber,
the stirring pain in the canopy,
a blurred opaque Polaroid of nothingness( a favourite word)
it takes a sharp needle to sew the pores,
the segments already ruptured.

i float
in the abstract mouth of liquids,
detonating like stars.

this place i breathe is punctured
like hips of an old lady,
vomits of the unborn in the epicentre seizures,
a mahogany bleeds, in bluish corners of knock.

horizontal bulbs drip blood instead of lights here,
this place of time and death,
a wasp of swollen sigh.
this place does this to me,
in hundreds of mouth,
hundreds of skin.
hundreds of sighs.

________________________________

what remains- time kills

sediments of love and despair,
like a dose of a morbid orchid petal,
throbbing in my blue cheeks
my limbs are rooms, small pavements that you rock
small parts, dilating trembling stairs of life,
a star inside a boxed room of loneliness
revolving in the thicket sheets of air,
a haze and a backache.
a periphery of grapevines, strangling
telling me to be naked on the evil plates of loss.
i bite my lips.
i bite my lips.

my body is nothing but a voice of pain
shredding, autumn leaves
a loose fitted, transitory polar air,
cold, crisp and moist like
a surgeon bisecting my legs, my frozen tongue.
and i am nothing
only a figment of blurred smoke,
ashes like a solid piece of rope.


 

and. i. grew.

P I N T E R E S T // aubreeweaver

my dress is an Ocean of your orange skin,
the soft lullabies, tapping beneath the arms
joining cities of lust, a blue tip of tongue knowing
the pits of this coal lowlands,

it started with your wet tongue, caressing my lips
mouth like a band of tendons, tobacco burning in the palms.
your scripted hands, your oil dripping scripted hands,
they are imaginary lines in my mind.

thunder simmers in my skull, whitening the black
the deep-rooted balmy glass of kiss, stains and cigars.
Lemon and peeper sound, we sink in the moments of this.

and somehow you made me grow, preserving, pickling
beneath the dome heart of your nail,
I grew.
i grew like a sun.


p.s- please keep up with me even if I am unable to reply your comments as of now.