A poet too insane

A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.

I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
too thin,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.

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Update on Olive skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that Kristiana and I have started this collective together which talks about all your pain, abstract verse, surreal poetries through our collective Olive Skins. We have received a great number of submissions for the first issue based on the theme “loss”. While we are still on for reading submissions, we soon are going to revert to the ones selected.

Until then, do submit your pieces if interested.

A poem like this

Mouth of stars/ flickering hands of aesthetic people/ a blue picture/ a few more aesthetic people/ watching a turquoise dream altogether/ hands covered with kisses and sweet dreams/ a picture so surreal/ A body naked/ Warm/ a corroded necklace/ some more soft kisses/ Prayers/ An air of lullabies caressing toenails/ Journeys ending to nowhere/ starlight sinking like a grapevine/ bubblegum wrappers/ A night so dark/ Nothing fancy/ Orange peels dripping juice/ Skin so soft/soft as forlorn sky/ soft as a womb/ a word so pious/ temple bells/ a poem like this.

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Submit your work for my collective Olive Skins here

A sedative

I want to quieten my mind
and each day I would count ways to do that.
Popping pills backward / gazing at the starlight
until dawn slaps me all over again.
A memory of death fidgets with my tectonic body.
I become so slow.
slow like degrading with the earth.

I count ways to quiet my mind while writing this poem.
There is a drop of water on my palm which freezes my hand,
like a singular stem of the numb horizon.

Hush, hush, hush.

I see my reflections
dying in the soiled air that slips upon my lips.
Violet and brown.
A colourless dream often.
I want to rest quietly,
with no connections any more

I could stare a small spot on the ceiling
like a moth
trying to endure a lie.
My words are epileptic today
just like me, all wobbly.
I stand here in a sitting position like a lotus,
and my organs defy my breath.
This poem is a bizarre,
try not to comprehend anymore.

Call for submissions- Olive Skins

First of all, I would like to extend my gratitude to all my genuine followers who have supported my work in the best possible way over the years and so now I am thrilled to announce that my dear friend Kristiana and I are soon going to start our own collective OLIVE SKINS which is scheduled for June end. This collective will be a collection of all the brave voices out there which often go unheard by others. The aim is to take submissions about mental health, pain, abstract poems, and fiction.

Ink your beautiful words, surreal poetry, prose and fiction through our email. We want raw poetry, no same old cliched romance poetry, if you want to be romantic, show us that in your fierce style! The collective shall be themed base.

Guidelines-

Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.

1. Send your work in a word file only.
2. If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.

Poetry, Prose editor- Devika Mathur
Fiction editor- Kristiana Reed
Submit poetry, prose at oliveskinspoet@gmail.com (send up to 3 pieces)
Send all the short creative/non-creative fiction at myscreamingtwenties@gmail.com

• Send your work along with a short bio.
• Deadline- 30th June
• Currently, we shall not pay our contributors but will do our best to promote your work!
• Submissions will be open throughout the month of June.
• The theme for our first issue – “Loss.”

So let’s get this started and start sending your submissions soon!

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Much love

A slipping poem

An entire life wraps itself
beneath the curtain of my orange mess.
You see few things here biting me like a void,
a fist to feel the pain
I have things half-written over here,
a half-written aesthetic journal
hammered down with sunburnt phases.

I have twigs of my memory
packed in a box of despair somewhere.
A point of subservience.
But then,
a poem falls
from my rinsed, soaked skin of spring.
I call it catharsis.

How my words dance around my convex neck,
how my creased papers sigh like a downpour.

And I all have is memories
of blue-bathed cloth
of sins& bottle-brush
All I have now is
rest
rest for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.

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Submissions for my collective olive skins here

Uniformity

There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
cracks open
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as        d e a  t  h
you know you will ultimately sink.

You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?

A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.

For it has been corroded, now.

Tired,
tired
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!

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Submission for Olive skins