the sun is a quiet watcher
absorbing walls of sins i produce
and so I sit here on the grounds
so cold and mute
listening, the squealing voices of birds.
The sky that paints a web of corollary
about things lost and things preserved.
the nights abandon my grief too
they have pockets full of primroses
and a chipped river flowing,
I do not wrestle for peace,
i inherit the red sirens that this air produces.
adoring these black nights too
that gulps the sore throat of a desecrated womb,
a picture painted with grief maybe too sickening for the Gods above.
I do not weep
or produce a rhyme about loss, rejection
wandering in eternals lands of pain
my chin sinks in this cacophony
to absorb the air, the light of the sun,
the darkness of the moon.
What is left of me?
Abandoned by all
the final leap of hope.
My last night’s ritual falls on this table
watching a landscape spread across, vivid blue with raw images
of skies, wrappers of sunsets.
life from life
splitting beneath the heaviness of that sky.
A shadow sits on the curtains,
carefully weeding out
Observing the forms of love that occurs.
Cheeks of orange crepe, cracking
a voice so brave and young I could hear.
A bed with two chairs.
Watching things falling in a syntax
of a molted clay
shaped like rooms inside a room.
I am again pondering
over chilled cold nights
over topic about men & Gods
as the air slips through my lips.
The existence that lives outside the memory.
blank as a curve
blank as a quiet sky
blank as a hawk
blank a curvature on apex
blank as a haunted corridor.
blank as a fallen sky
blank as a single eye
blank as a numb wound.
Do you see such patterns of absolute pauses?
You are as blank as a naked word
baffled each day by air’s uncertainity.
Prompt- Forgotten Technology
This goes beyond the tampered noises that prevail today
silence ruffle under the sheets of abrupt behaviour.
If I talk,
let me talk to you about the mottled photos
of yesterday’s yellow sun
a wildflower blooming under my chin
spreading across the lunatic nights of hum
Death too had come on many occasions,
looking at your obscure spots in my album.
That did not stop there.
A ligament or two did rupture in the old records,
//Burning. Aching. Burning.//
The body became a range of toxins,
wild with a blue winged heavy eye.
These eyes would flip through rotten memories looking at the old telephones,
Looking at a thing dying so carelessly.
Death is an art- as I do not refuse the facts.
The days were simple on record players with my hesitation staying on top of it.
Loose wires of phones. Vintage blurred memories of hands and cupboards
Of lemons and the sniff of a heavy weighted lady
that filled my room
the time that taught of enormous voices revolving inside the gut.
Pain. A fancy circle of construction of mind.
I do not claim to sew the motion of consciousness here.
Take time to ingest a list of fury.
Screams through hard-boiled eggs and a toaster cracking between the unheard voices of the parents.
It stays in memory. Not in the old stained yellow book-shelves.
Few things travel through drama and enter into a raw state of reality.
A tapestry that hangs, looms in the gloomy corners of forlorn memories.
There isn’t a sight that does not make me think of you
of your auburn burning skin in the heat-
a poem so soft on your lips,
it almost is center of all light
an inflammable kiss
with fumes coalescing into fumes of rainbows
The body rises from something so chalky beneath
an enormous restlessness
traversing nights and days
I wish to remember days like these
beneath my frolic skirt
above my trembling belly
I wish to swallow your blank stare
your stare that revolves like a tangerine sky
with leftover peels of my summer orange.
I wish to remember dry afternoons
with a song inserted in my mouth
a bee that rotates like a tulip
between our fingers entwined.
Like all things of love and soft music.
Of lust I must speak to you.
This body glows like a river
only too thin to bend over you.
Acknowledge the minuteness spread onto my face
across the loose limbs that floats in the air.
Of beauty –
I come to you,
spreading a knob of orange garden
where the time collapse and stops for a moment.
This moment captures us,
to bind us for a sparkle of glory
Of Tongues and tongues
I dream of point of indulgence
A point that emerges from my bottom to your top-
Plants in the cold rain
like diluted streams of romance
You row in the nectar of my oozing moonflowers
Atop my bosom you sit like a wax
spreading an ensemble of winter dreams and summer breeze.
You do not stop there.
I announce carnivals in my womb.
It does not stop. It glows further.
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Walls of the air do not crack
as there exist our stories lingering across the streets.
Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance
speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust
The brooding sniff of the moon
to sink between my large womb.
She often speaks to me of you.
Your abstract ways of unraveling things
behind the layers where mockery hides.
To pleat the abhorrence of life,
your bones are my memoir.
my spot of expanded prints & rainbows..
Make me bend and scream,
your coral colour creaks on my tongue.
To the tress, I wish to announce
a twig suddenly has fallen.
I think the ache begins at my lower back,
The hurt that I got due to an accident
Or a muscle collapsing.
Things or two it taught me about distraction,
and wholesome love.
The pain shift to my left angular hand.
The palm unfocused, floating in the air
The knee doesn’t stop there,
It bends & cracks
with a peel of medieval ache,
The old vintage era of swollen eyes.
I see it all through the staircase of my dizzy body.
But what about the eyes?
Will they shut the spineless playlist of brown air
or soak in some more tears?
They refuse to talk. To sleep.
Eyes are the biggest culprit any era can produce.
They twitch, itch but won’t eat up your wound.
My anxiety is a shapeshifter,
until i put my fingers through the sheet of night.
Inspired by- Eavan Boland
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.
a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.
Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,
things pause as the sun sets in.
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.
A bizzare hustle,
An old painting getting chipped.
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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
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 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.
Read my new published work here Modern Literature
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