Memories

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The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

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Vintage Love

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“Perhaps when you will  leave, you will take something of mine: chestnuts, roses or a surety of roots or boats that I wanted with you, comrade”— Pablo Neruda

I doubt the incubation of turgescent moment
where my hands might be swollen
and your tongue all opaque,
I do not wish a lush firmament
or kisses of holy verses,
For I crave is the skin and pores
and countless breaths you take
like torrential piquant roses and wine
You rotate into my feverish mollusc body
Like an Equinox, you conquer my susceptible shadow
Walnuts cracking piece by piece,
the susurration sound to be heard
mapping your virile chest and hands
Too many secrets of love to be unveiled tonight
like letters, vintage photographs, Pure breaths.
I crack bit by bit into your wonderous mouth
Detonating into million and million pieces of delicate memory,
And each time, you hear me.

©My Valiant Soul


 

Contrast

Teenagers in the 1950's much more elegant than teenagers now...
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Circulation of stars was more familiar during
those sincere days when our bodies felt the lust,
the smitten rose kiss, the dandelion slaps
on our naked, yellow tongues.
Telephones were intriguing, for addiction kills.
Fingernails did not chap, broken things did mend.
Inside the tubes of bars, ladies enjoyed
with a brew of solace and poised wise.
My teeth crack to see the irony today,
humanity dies, numbing the skies.
Sometimes when I walk on moist roads,
The oak and the cactus pigments my impeccable skin,
slapping mud onto my thighs, making me realise a sigh!
For life's revenge is time,
And nothing binds the state of time.


My latest work published on Duane's Poetree.
-My Valiant Soul

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Three Children and Wagon c. 1930s #history             WOW the first sweet picture I have seen with Black and White children.

Some people I see these days are like
broken paragraphs of my poetry
with a missing meter and inconsistent gravity
Detonation of disgust pits and addition of volatile
vodka stammers my insipid vision.
Half moon, half-blood, half mouth covered,
like a decomposition of the great Odyssey.
Some people these days are like
Vintage tributes( but unfamiliar, surreptitious).
With a bumblebee of summery sky,
they bite your pure coltish recently built home
Some people these days exists like this
till they tangle your knots into miseries.

 

-My valiant soul

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Yellow Segments

yellow, aesthetic, and art image
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I have detached my cellophane dreams with your cold shiverings

Sustenance to moments invite a vaporizing acceptance

My breaths carve my bones as I count the stars,

Hopes can be delusional, hope can be aimless.

It only moulds the opening of my bosom

where a stack of anti-oxidant hid.

The penumbra of opaque sunrays never lie, it portends a fact.

Under the quietness of my mole, a layer of satisfaction arise

Seepage, Integration, Addition.

My skin kisses my lips, I sit and watch the pervasive love

Inside the language of gods, a clock of soft murmur arise

Trusting the humans once again,

trusting the pillow talks again and again.

A naked Observation

 

London, 1908.
image courtesy- Pinterest

 

Forbid me from not inviting you to the dinner tonight,

The reservations are kept clean and precise

We shall make Spaghetti Arrabiata and will murmur talks.

Talks about new locality, a lamenting voice of new priests doing exorcism

Surrounding my pesky air, claps and thunder shall be mixed in your wine

A charcoal dust will caress your cheekbones, piquant games of truth and dare

A memoir, a brandishing clamour of naked bodies will dance

Time teaches time about the modals of life

and human bites time again and again.

I scream inch by inch like the wing of sparrow (Hush, hush, hush)

Needles revolve, this golden sundial stands frozen

Some say the truth, others are clowns well decorated in their own pits.

Forbid me from not inviting you to the dinner tonight.

 

-My Valiant Soul

Whispers

Whispers: A tale of my forlorn soul to my fingernails
A point of truth occurs on my sordid laps,
I had enough of alcohol, enough of pills now
Fatigue, disappointment, Dropping ink,
Like a spot of timid bee,
my back scratches the pain of black paint,
spawling I am dwelling outside the cape of unknown and the known
Travelling graves and the faded stars
Beneath duality, a layer of another transparent air exists
Cubes of salt and granules of sugar
Sip, slap, gulp.
Hush, my thoughts are evolving back and forth
oh, forth and back(tapping the drums,
iteration)
The breakfast I prepared stinks tonight,
I will eat the dinner in the morning.
The circumference of my naval is lit yet again,
There are stories piling inside, Stacking of memories,
the throbbing of outnumbered voids.
Silence, noise, silence.

-My valiant Soul

Resentment

Sun-dried lemon peels occur on my skin today,
For the sky sings dust and hailstorm
The segments of abhorrence and sensibilty play a jigsaw game.
For I have inhuman breaths you gave
on that turtle path of stinking array of roses clinging my soul.
I have heard your sorrows, laments to decipher the unknown
Still I am covered in the darkness of your crocodile shadow.

Kindled

 

A Gibson Girl and her man! 1900's fashion www.fashion.net
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My porcelain skin utters an unaccustomed Sirimiri

Into the void of this Orphic orange sky

Where I extend my arms, my legs to hold your strawberry breaths

Of your genial presence,

I splinter into rays of sunshine and form a circle of shadows

A piece of apple pie hidden in my quenching throat

Where the pharynx screeches my oesophagus

Only to be a dissent of summer grass into your

quixotic proliferating winter chills.


®My Valiant Soul