I am talking like this after ages, I know. Thing is something is there I feel lacking inside me. That satisfaction, maybe? Since past many days, i have been observing the silent response on my blog, not that i care for the stats. But the comments are the things which always uplifted me.
i have toiled like anything for this poetry blog of mine. I have written god knows n number of poetries by now. So, the thing is if it is not doing good now, i want to know the reason!
and yes, i am as always grateful to all my readers who have read me for all these years. I have been busy lately because of so many other things. But i sincerely want to extend my thanks to those who were there to read me!
drop your comments may be, of what you think of my poetry?!
have a great day ahead!
i have written in my belly,
a thing for you,
your name that clamours this wall.
i have it preserved into my bones,
these skeletons of dark bowl.
ah! your voice, eccentric, atoms of atoms.
you blink, and i am basket of sunsets.
this life is a point of conversation.
with you, i skip this life.
a word that flutters still, like a pill.
my darling create a tremor,
with spaces white as snowflakes.
i slip into you, a swirl of art.
this moon does to me what spring does to me.
the serendipity of lost lovers,
aching inside a tubewell of noises.
numb eyes, pink lips.
a lover’s greet.
beneath the shadow of the piroutte moon,
something surreal occurs,
a mother runs, runs like a fever.
a wife declutters her soul.
a tongue becomes colorless.
and a circle of hiccups surrounds this moon,
a silk bathrobe, caressing against the collarbone.
it happens like dyslexia,
a galvanizing moment perhaps.
people swirl here as if they do not care.
a soft satin kiss
it happened before and it happened today,
i lay on the sides of my kitchen sink
thinking the arrival and departure of my husband,
arrival of his velvet mouth that utters a chain of lantern.
he is adorable, like the moon.
he has his own mood, often.
the purgatory of life resides in this cobweb.
things ascend and descend in a ghoulish manner.
a blue-knitted shawl on the cold chest.
things around me pamper me,
this lone time also pampers me,
i walk and create art in the garden,
in am vacant – small, terrace with broken chipped walls,
something happened there maybe.
a spectral wire of corrosive shade and memory.
a twitch that shakes me.
often i am speechless,
the kind of attack when your fingers
won’t fit in your mouth.
eyes shut and small.
that’s another kind of suicide.
mondays and Tuesdays are my favorites,
i watch my body decaying until Sunday comes,
and i am a piece of supine tied at the block of a tree.
so i am alive,
i cling to the nakedness of moment like a toddler to a mother.
the sky to apathetic rain,
the embalming breeze to the leaves…
something rhetoric and oblivious.
at the end of the day,
i weep, laugh, take pause, clap and sip it all.
my eye behaves in a torrential tobacco sniff.
i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.
Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.
this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.
so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.
my ribs are the house of tears of walled up cities, lost.
a sunken pool of total insanity, you might say.
i want to feel antique, like a vintage lampshade burning bright
in the corners of total darkness.
a flower of hope, blooming on my hip, on my lip.
this insanity does all the bizarre things, like a foot inside a mouth,
choking the timeline of flashbacks.
the mewl of sighs, swollen up, gazed up.
i could armor myself, like soft breeze
only at nights now, hallucinations maybe?
the broken air that traps my waist, sits next to me.
it calls me her baby.
a moist conversation.
i often hear whispers of this brain clinging my mouth,
it offers silent prayers too.
i burn with a film of oil in the tongue.
a poisoned needle that disturbs a human.
so, i paint my skin with a nude color of weeds,
to camouflage like a sky in the sky.
words lost in words.
and i wake up the next morning to repeat the same insipid steps. I create art each day.
My Phospherent body of raisin skin
moans and swells like a process of Spirituality
with fingers clinging your mouth,
your scars, your lips, your teeth
and your heart of surrealistic reverie.
I become a thunderbolt,
in the opulent windows of dreams and smiles
wearing your white shirt, I swing.
I swing like an autumn leaf,
cascading down your throat,
that black spot on your chest
You thump and palpitate my arms.
Spring is born between our naked lips.
The temperature of cold walls crack
in the slices of Orion blue.
A stardust drinks the entire Constellation
Life trembles and illusions occur.
I breathe you somewhere between
the spaces of my index finger and my thumb now.
I wear your sins on my mercury tongue
levitating branches and seeds of satisfaction, darling.
i understand that feeling of leaking.
an untold truth from your orange laps,
You breathe deeply, like a concave mirror dropping in shreds.
You wish to be gentle, to be soft.
A smouldering aroma that sits quietly on the bosom, nonchalantly.
I understand the pain and the peeling of throats past evening,
You force a dry smile, day after day on your smitten wrinkled face.
I understand how the walls of your lobby appeared,
lost in ignorance,
where people walked in and they left without a souvenir.
You have many branches, girl
smoke on an ashtray, burning still.
You can feel the hollowness of Earth.
the languid smell it holds, it carries us,
we the dead morbid souls.
I understand that lisp in your backbone,
your words burning inside like a leaf dying,
A point of everything comes for everything.
Accept it, girl, you are the voice.
Watch the sunset, you can swallow it all.
when you step your foot on the thin film of the sheet,
there is a red lampshade, moist and speaking mute voices.
you take a right turn then and you see a pill of god.
you slurp it backward, at the tip of your tongue,
thinking it shall slip softly down in your stomach,
hushing the coiled noises.
you always step backwards,
at night, like dirt, dust.
a morphed arm,
for you were a burden throughout the day
and you sulked too backwards,
life eating the humans.
my lips curled, bitten like half-lit moon
speaking up things bizarre, backwards,
into the sky that spreads between my white legs.
i finish reading, walking all in a backward motion.
often i survive in this perfection.
i rub my hands, to circulate a thread of warmth onto my cheeks.
i live like that. Backwards.
i was born of clay and mud
with peppermint segments inside my mouths.
My body was a pillar of rust—
ballistic Squamish music growing
like a pepper spray or a prayer.
Mouth of losses. Mouth of deformations.
And mother held me like a paper- boat
still floating inside her spring memory,
defying my half- bled fingers already/
i was born in reds and black,
the ability to sense lies with half-lit eyes
i was born in a warm moon,
it composed me anyway
in forms of lullaby and music
i grew with crooked hopes—
my years of growing up symbolised to balloons
seen in the air,
gone in the air..
still, somewhere, growing and surviving.
so, i had kissed the backbones
of rooms never fading,
rooms always black,
it happened like a circus playing inside my mind,
with mute music often-
Loss of memory is surely a poultice, sometimes.