the itch, the orange glass ceilings always fail my existence, an inhuman thing sinks beneath my eyelids walking abruptly, in patterns unknown, there are things which makes no sense a loose river like madness a loose butter like sky slipping from my white hands, my hands which are now counting the marks of my footprints making a spiral knot about this moments, this momentary void inside of me, this permanent injuries inside of me. as everything engulfs everything the violence in its own chest the cold murder of my hands and the body still counts the days left to breathe.
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
The flesh is incoherent the nuance of this body is sand all things that sit inside my bones, tremble like sounds unheard, from the Indian mountains it begins to crack piece by piece as if it is the wail of time as if there is no neck to this body. Humans- all that they love, sinks beneath, somewhere. And my eyes become wrinkled pomegranate seeds awash beside the uprooted trees of misery.
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
Originally posted on Indie Blu(e) Publishing:
An exhaustive account of the inception and the fruition of the Kali Project by Co-Editor Candice Louisa Daquin At the beginning of 2020 … I had a conversation with Indian surrealist poet Devika Mathur about an anthology of Indian women poets. I had just edited Devika’s first poetry…
If I could I would elope with my insanity with a lavender bud blooming inside my cheek. I write mad things drawing the turbid face of a blue lady as if she has no blood vessels. Breathless. Slow. Melting. Twirling in my skirt skirts, twirling along the locus. My breaths inflate this entire galaxy. like an elastic stuck to the tongue, this tongue that is motionless too. If I could, I would sink in an ephemeral elegy denying the neon green hope. A snivel of moist grass. A question of reality. I will smirk & dance and clap & clap. A century of feeble screams suppressed under my soft skin. This madness makes me complete; I say so. A sea of voice hidden under my curves. I carry so many of you here & there. If I could, I would melt along with you.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Find attached all the links to get your own copy. AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
Bones indigo, lacking a piece of earth, inside your mouth of stars a tremor of zodiac signs Like a Taurus blooming.
You sprinkle lust on my bosom bubbles of thin colours, a 4 am moonlight sigh. Tender mouths of mud and water, unborn fruits of the ultimate kiss. This is us.
My hips now like a parched lake. I am made up of unpruned divinity, an untamed odorless shadow of sky between the thick sheets of a dark city.
Beautiful sun, how you grow all over me, with a swollen tongue licking my mouth, as if collapsing in his arms. Inside my mind, there is a temple. Rain Sun Earth I will crack my eyelids open, now.
----------------------------------------------- (I wrote this piece a long time ago) I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
Things do not attach themselves to our void, till we allow it to occur. Things- broken, upsetting they instill our hearts and soul with remorse and pain. A haunting truth about liberation is when we clench our minds limited only to the point we think we need it, it never occurs. What about the next step?
The next step of releasing our fears and not ingesting the feeling of guilt and sadness always. The process requires abundance of acceptance. Acceptance of our mistakes, acceptance of knowing our worth, our dreams as well acceptance to not expect from others.
Prayers can be addictive. I have watched myself for a month not going to the bed without chanting a hymn or “om mani padme hum”…it’s strange belief or a meditative medium as if I have someone to hold on, I never trusted humans and somehow I suffer from social anxiety and therefore I know how strong my bond is with miracles and prayers. No, the reason is not limited only to this. While addressing about my insanity and delirious thoughts in the form of poetry in my first full length collection- crimson skins, I cried and managed to write somehow.. I later found out my journey with healing. About something beyond pain…something surreal yet realistic. I dedicate each day ever since to my writing process as a slow, healing journey. A quiet, nurturing interaction to my soul. It’s all about the Self!
——————————————————————————————————————————-
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
And after the things have been quiet, a slow nocturnal pause returns a pause to collapse again, There is an endless whistling, with a bleached sky a bleached portion of the sunset I can still touch it, the surface of things breaking apart, the nuisance of the blood vessel the hanging canopy of faces: dry/parallel. The night takes everything within itself, abandoned by all, it has not the face of love. I know the sniff of abandonment where the night spews distorted loneliness through my body – a pool of flustered pink love. ———————————————————
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
The women of my time spend too much time thinking,
thinking about the leftover foods
the leftover oil, cucumbers and what not
The women of my time speak a vacant language
a kind of verbiage which makes you stutter
they have a lost glory eyesight
they wish to see things yet falls on a flat surface.
The women of my time are petite and so full.
Full of things that break a human heart,
a cupboard full of memories disguised as polaroids,
fancy teacups clinging the sounds of romance
Arteries of lust flowing
lust for things beyond your skin.
They do not tuck in emotions in their garments.
Hot spaced cheeks splashing words of mahogany
the hem of skirts always full of raisins and butter.
The women of my time eat wounds like spices
more precious than the silver gems
their robes
all shades of the sunset, transformation of a child, maybe.
watching her swath their eyes becomes terrible often
terrible as watching a melting moon.
Women of my time prepare a soft warm water bath for themselves
to swim,
to eat the sins,
to eat something beyond the plastic walls,
they do shiver
yet they do not pause here.
The women of my time are goddesses: a figurative speech about liberation.
They sit and watch the open sky as if they have the light in their puerile palm.
If you like this do consider checking out my poetry collection on-Amazon. And on Pothi– India
I am quiet too often like the empty hallways, humming a song already forgotten with a tilting toe towards the sun a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination there is a staircase now falling beneath my parting head half towards left, half towards right days whistling on sea waves about my country in flames, about my city in illusions
watching a cloud things fall under the feet now a complete loss of sense tiny leaflets fluttering
green songs that reflect nothing. the survival becomes a pungent smell often with absent glares and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.
My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-
