to defy time

i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.

I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming.
Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.

I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.

You can taste pain like this

Pain. The most inexplicable beauty of humans. Masked and tattered. Orange peel-like surface. As you begin to walk, you feel the blurb of suntanned skins. Lack of juices. ShOrtening of breaths. And there is this pain, gazing your throat. Knuckles break, like the liquids of body evaporating.
Rancid platter of nostalgia. You try to walk away and so you pop pills.
splashing your face with haze- with a spot as black as a pupil.

It has a demure, an oval semblance to shadows. Silk eyed folds. Beneath the nocturnal facets and crevasses, you leak just like that. And you leak until you begin to daydream. Until you are broken and unpleasant to taste. Your juices stink. Your pool of paradise is dried up. Here comes the itch. The itch to bend and smell the distant whiff of loneliness. What does night eat after its done pleasing? Pleasure ends like that.

The day- I -age

I feel like i am retiring from the rusty chairs of mine.
this amniotic liquid evaporating slowly.
the blurred lines fading like dusk
the oil, hushing my ink.
and the unnatural baskets of dreams( the hallucinations where the mind is a myth)
i become lush and marked, thin veins drying.
stigma eating my mouth first,
and then my olive hands.
my ear often bleeds clandestine words
emancipating like a ghost,

How do i walk? how do i sleep?
These irregular modals of life sticking me to my lone windowsill.
i am a vase to my empty body now.
holding firmly, like mothers touch.
the roots stoic in the arms of brown bride.
and i hold myself
quiet and dark
dark and slow.
____________________________________

Aerial forever

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Darling,
i have seen the ombre of your lips and words
like mirrors protruding a new leaf,
like a vintage walnut is hidden under my pillow,
your kiss under my pillow, for memories are my skin.

Darling,
i have known you all these years
as the shadow of the moon, tingling my dreams,
making me nocturnal often,
your breeze like the nostalgia of lights.
and your mushy hands of solace.
pause and dance, dance and breathe.

Darling,
i see you as morning dew
as a charm cascading as red as a blush
around my waist, around my milky thighs.
extending til my toes.
your breaths are my home.

I see you like an eye of perfume if any.
Aerial forever.

 

 

Words

Words. They break me like lightning inside.
Slick balls of painted nights,
cold, bleak and wounding.
The body becomes a range of chemicals.
Seizures and paranoia, talking to me.
Winter often comes in a runny ink blob,
pitcher of milk, black forest.
And i sit like bumblebee, mending, sitting, buzzing
in my skins of lie and corrosion.
A facet of darkness leaks within, like a mirage or a sin.
A whirlpool of crooked fingers, haunted and baleful.


a forgotten memory

I am a forgotten memory
with a quiet mouth of a clock( a chain that clogs my neck)
a forgotten yellow tainted page, blank as an ocean.
These people i see, i smile at my own hands,
my own chin, my deep purple intense eye(i know it has an intense shape of a flower)
softly listening all songs
swallowing the delusional veins and freckles of my hands,
i know i am a memory.

forgotten like vintage telephones, crooked voices
90’s soft love collecting silver dust from mouth to mouth,
movement of the breeze, a song of nostalgia.
Sepia. Broken pencils. Vintage poetry.
forgotten like that.

,©Image an Words MVS

Vacant voices

A moment elongates itself like a thick sleet of froth
thin as a membrane often,
it’s a horrible need to ingest the petals
something that slits the skin and tongue,
watch the phantom of atmosphere,
how incorrigible swirl waft the cheekbones.

Often voices stuff my vacant rooms with leftover light.
Voices like “Oh you love”…voices with intense roots.
I retrace footsteps back in my lawn, trying to discover my untamed breaths,
trying to burn the unlit clump of log( wet and careless things are beautiful).
I often feel like a ghost, entrapped like a white air
tip-toeing in quiet hush old house.

I am broken. i am pale with an ever-growing quench of burning thighs.
I am what i am anyway. Lost. Amorphous. Melting.