perhaps i got caught between your silk fingers,
gently throwing the vomit away,
petals of lips brushing away,
swaying like thunders.
perhaps, i slipped into you
before spring could collapse on my belly,
time sticks too many collection.
i am bloodlust,
caffeine on the stove, incensed.
expanding like perforated sky
only to melt like never before.
a stretch of copper sky,
hips full of smoke & nostalgia.
perhaps i loved you way too much.
give me a moment erupting like shreds of golden mirror,
honey dripped touch,
mouths swallowing a sweet lie of ours.
something like that, but real.
it’s that time of the month
when the earth blooms like a bride,
and a thumb of life splinters.
fragments of the earth, the moon
like a mahogany autumn kiss,
divides my body into two beautiful halves.
I am a blossom now,
a dew on the foreheads of Gods.
Those gods who created a dimension of soil inside me.
Blueberries that speaks a truth about springs.
I give births, i take births
a circle of life.
effeminate blisters chiselled onto my hip.
I do not take rest like the sun, the moon.
i am a supernatural flower of crumpled anxiety.
So, I gather and gather, sunbeams, lilies
a soft thorn, honey, raindrops.
as much as i can,
to slip it all into my jaws,running
through the streams of loneliness of this fish-shaped eye.
A memoir of rusty olives.
hanging like saliva from my forehead.
I am a bizarre lady with a half lit moon.
I have been a lover, a mistress, a daughter.
a tempest swirling from the eye of truth.
Slipping from the gullet of time.
And now, i create a fantasy of hallucinations.
An empty bed with an empty mirror.
to collect the parenthesis of wishes and words.
a violet mauve touch of my small finger.
these hours are sand of jewels.
perfume stuck to my wrist that clicks plum nectar,
i walk alone now,
like hair swinging wildly in the summer breeze,
i watch myself o this mirror,
it choked me to death.
I might walk alone tomorrow also,’
while going to the market for my pills
shifting from the vents of miniature delights.
a cloying disease.
i have words, letters , synonyms
hanging like branches of temple.
point of emotions. wars.
i am not alive, i am hanging like joints.
these ephemeral stages that are bulbs during the day.
for no reason, i am damp and moist.
Forest with twigs lit my entire body.
Is it the poetry spreading like a disease now?
i see no moon…i see only a Point.
point of love. Matrices. Sky impregnated with moisture.
for all i remember the morning was obscure,
misty and dewy,
almost like a suicide.
he stood flowing, hopping from city to city
with mirrors broken,
a kiss forgotten.
i drew a circle that day to keep myself safe,
i always do that.
a circle with mangroves, swamps.
fingers / traipsing my mollusc body.
i had a fever.
cold and shaky like a shadow.
i wanted to perch on the footsteps you walked in.
it was that simple,
hallucinating your white-blue shirt.
oh the smell we created like chemicals.
a cadence you left still shines like the moon.
i keep it in the almirah i created,
a circle : of all the beginning.
I sit and fall like meteors.
and i capture your emblematic threads of wilderness.
a point of my sustenance.
my poem published on the rye whiskey review
its like lilies.
diluted heaps of blue tears.
scalded and indexed.
all the marking onto my heavy lips.
My lips are even today,
with plum shade paint
dancing on the rim of sorbet.
its like white wildflower,
a fish with black scales dancing in its slumber.
Piquant, small pebbles cascacding from tears.
salty as skin. salty as dream.
its like mirror,
sequin shades of lover.
i am wondersruck galaxy.
These veins in my hands run fever now.
Thank you dear readers for always reading my words and leaving your lovely comments. I truly appreciate it.
yes, its the drop of ink
on my mouth of hallucinations.
The pink, wet curvature of hope.
I am not always dark, for all you think so.
I often melt and float with a sestina on my hip.
A swollen ebb of amnesia and what not.
I am an empty room with a mahogany chair soaked in the sun.
I often swing like neem trees.
Those are the things, blue as ink and sturdy as ivory.
And i knit such dreams into my belly button.
Generating brick buildings on soft petals.
I don’t have much to say on these days.
I am often lonely in silence too.
Those things spread their luscious arms.
Its eternal, still body.
A capsule with powders of night secrets.
for those are the things i carry at my spine and lungs.
things that really matters.
Things that i pray of distilled white.
i write about words flipping. An austere silence of white spot.
where my mind slips like a star, a container of things.
All things small. All things big.
Sunflowers. Mirrors. Wash basins of sins. A sliced layer of a tongue.
i keep things safely like the moon keeps tides.
Often my body expands, and i talk about hallowing point of death.
A blue stigma of turgescent smell.
I write about broken ceilings, tip-toed pain seeping inside.
And numb arms floating. I am a collector of things.
I collect people. From the sideways of my pupil.
Under the quietness of my skin.
Infestation. Indentation of stains.
each finger comprises a twig of pain :loss
you count one, and a pit is created,
Countless movements of scales.
Countless movements of corpuscle.
I take the final drop of blood
lurking through the moments of us,
between the cotton moisture,
between the untold air, humid.
I become a ball of loss and regeneration.
And i write about geography instilled with hushed voices.
i do not say i want your metaphors all the time. I need your bowl of reflections, white and pure. Thick fog running through my backbones, i am tired of feeling this red colour inside my body. Dilute it, maybe?Splash a mute word, spreading like a fungus, onto my body. You see, i don’t want wildflowers, today. I am insane, and i want your insane, dark, rough love. I have nothing else to hide beneath.i can slice unhappy moon, anthills stretching this cold evening.
can you rustle, beneath the cold sheets of chills? And enunciate the dimensions of love, rainbows for me in an oblivious way? Sequins of art-work. I know your ways are more like a cobweb. A fire extinguisher, is all i wish. something that cures the sore tickle of my back, my bosom and mouth.
i don’t want berry nights from you, i want your white shirt, to cling. I have been doing that and i shall do it. I want it to hold on like a brush on a canvas, sliding a blurb of emotion. Like a bulge on my skin towards more of left. Crimson skies full of earth.
I want that little love, that little home.
P.S -for a change I have written a romantic piece, after a hiatus now. (to my love)
I know the pain,
Irrevocable moisture on pillow.
the fights between the pills and cactus
morning lust with skeleton.
Quick thick penumbra,
a hysterical sigh each day.
purgative blood makes you strong i think
something out there makes you more black
and you hold and clasp,
till you gulp and swallow
i know that surreal romance,
of seizures and tears,
of ink and words.
Read my poetry published on this amazing journal Dying Dahlia review