veins


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.

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a heart to you

 

loved themed shoots <3

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,
my staicase.
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

things with flowers

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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.

the only thing that matters

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.


 

A collector of things

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.

a little love

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)

windows and mirrors

Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.

This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.

Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.

Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.


Nights and words

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,
clicking noises
of seizures and tears,
of ink and words.


Read my poetry published on this amazing journal Dying Dahlia review

no reasons

cold hands meet me like temples,
adjoining bodies of splash.
a mother, a sister,
a verb, a noun,

it all begins with me,
a feverish touch of mine,
endless spots of joy and birth.
a door often conjures murmurs.

continuous, ephemeral drops of dreams,
hanging like autumn leaves,
a transitory position slips beneath me.
i stay quiet as a hawk,

pure as hot wax.
A body rocks its arms in blue stench,
and i bask in.
for there are things growing, a weed
for no reason.


hope you are doing great.
P.s My recent poetry got published here.

Link to my poem in this amazing anthology
can be checked out on amazon.

 

 

Things I like to do

Related image

“this is the easy time, there is nothing doing”- Sylvia Plath

Cherries and quieter moments
basking in the volatile spur of the moment
and there I sit and gulp your madness
your cold, hot waxy madness.
I wonder, how you eat my skin in the noon,
with a cheek of sublime apple,
water ripple flushing my eye.

winters are blankets of love and pain.
you sink like a twig in a swamp,
and you still want to clasp the moon.
My nostrils cold,
with you in it,
a sleepless satire of pale face.

I sit, a wall of clock eating my claw,
my fist aching,
counting the floating moment of time,
A catharsis of breeze often romances with my bosom
telling me talks of air, crisp and erratic.
And there, I am lost, empty, earthed like air.

My recent work published here- my words.

And yeah once again I am all about SP! And where are my old WP writers?