I wish to say a quick hi to all. I am currently passing through a rough time linked to many things. So, if my poetry is dark or surreal well hello, that’s me. You are free to read or to move away from my blog, but kindly do not be insensitive to my words. I really do not care about the likes or the count. Life is much more than that. Isn’t it?
my latest work published on Mad Swirl can be read here. Also, my poetries will be available soon on many upcoming anthologies. Hope you all still read my words? it’s up to you!
lights on this orange body,
this wood is a proof
my mouth is a squid,
hanging to catch your wet breath.
a fainting memory eats me.
for i am a sucker of bones & heart.
this is a spot of us, darling,
the summery grass of love-making.
i bite my scorched lips,
i bite my tongue to feel your departure,
and i feel hollow as a black spot.
a trajectory of million dreams.
stilness often wraps my swollen body,
and flicks my elongated neck,
until i eat your face, simple & molten.
i am that vase, half- lived.
half floating and it sucks to be like that.
Back at my vintage house in India,
i have a memory dying there on the windowsill, a cobweb formation.
a moth sucking life from another.
there, a cataract lie envelopes my pale body.
i see myself each day hushing this array of
blue stack of migraines.
i disavowal what made my pink- poetry once.
and here i am, twitched and degenerated.
the doors creak like this bone dropping
a soundless gape.
anxiety turns a woman into a liquid flower,
Again, i am an organ supporting my another organ, all alone.
my body is abnormally sensitive.
this mind a warehouse. And often, i walk
like a succumbed thing.
and home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
with my arms regenerating at nights,
to sulk my sins. Moist.
Women hear a falling noise. It savours their skin.
i see you spreading like blob of colors
sunset inside your mouth,
a hundred nights of sickness grows.
somewhere, arms growing like a living room.
mother, your chin spewed chemicals,
on the night I was born.
1:00 am. a night that swallowed both of us.
You carried varicose time on your sickening waist,
like time made you of clay.
and you heard my voice of lace mucus.
screams growing like fingernails.
you said i must grow, where ever planted.
mosaic pieces stuck to my pharynx.
big- boned, thin legged,
i am 26 today mother, i still bleed,
the way you did last night.
am i you? or life is ingested like you
into my system.
i try shutting my eyes,
a thing you detached from your wrist.
the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.
you sit on my corrosive neck and feel the black void spot,
i have bones made of bone-china and a little neck to proceed.
i stand and look for you in aberrant currents,
i split daylight across your arms.
to know the layers of your skin & words
i perform rituals day after day.
A windswept memory tucked between your lips.
a grey memory folded like velvet curtains.
i imagine you in a surrealistic way.
A song to hum, to ingest the threads of madness.
i think of you in moments of cacophony that stich my ears with a soft noise of you.
i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum
i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.
thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.
The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.
and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.