Mother, I make fire. from toe to toe- Horizontal shivers. Mother- you ask 'Who am I'? I ask the same- the inheritance of glory is perhaps a groaning knock? I am a walking grief- a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn an adjective which stands nude- s t r a i g h t in parrallelism . Mother, what are these things around me? These objects, people- fungus in pickles- spit it out, immediately- spit and spat- You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry, bearing negations for an absolute face of mine you replicate me mother, or do i do you? Is my face not enough? Is my weakness too shallow? Mother! Oh glorious victory- You know all of it. You do. You do. You do.
Into the room of everything
Your clear eye is one such beauty haunting for days - this body that dwells on it your each visison- birds perching on my balconies and not disturbing my burnt pancakes. I see. I annihilate. I wash face. I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree and all about 'waiting for Godot' This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins it's funny politics and gender of skies. I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt that fills my nostrils are too many, symmetrical and ferocious. The closed drawers in my room chatters all about my loneliness and nothing still infects me. You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths. I say this this too. the notions of morality and absurdism tickling cellophene above our eyelids.
Longings- these moments of a kiss. Occurring between us. Occults of time and space. Movements along the waistline. You scream again and again about the slightly dehydrated sky.
We – a passage of transparent sky slurps the bees. Wild mulberries pressed against the cheeks. How do you not see this? Movements along lips. Thunder of God’s voice down in my womb. The flexibility of this verb- a shudder: the red Sun. How do you defy this?
Say it- Say something about barren empty nights as life perches. Dissolution in water. This is a mere hallucination. This is what the body desires now- syntax so lost and translated in your postures. This. Biology of each molecule-shuddering useless violence. May I squeeze it further? This- That. The grass is gaping at me. Sun dissolved in Stars.
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Crimson Skins- India
Listen up here, amidst the greenfield. raindrops dancing. onto our toes. Heavy atmosphere. Seagulls atop our fingenails. Wait, watch the sky. Wait. Here, count the sky. seraphic susurrous sighs. Sustenance climb the stairs Sliding climb the sky reverberate Anthropocene Pronounce Platonic. Renaissance. Do not flutter now. Wait for me. Let's elope together into the void into the madness.
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The Old Body-
with chained ankles,
hush, thrilling lips,
a body floats inside my mind,
dwindling through the carcass,
old and vintage-
a mahogany river of crooked moonlight,
this body blooms and sinks at the same time,
uttering a blob of big sun-shaped tongue
emerging through the stains and walls
through veins and puddles.
this time itches now,
I have wounds all over my barren body
a body- now a pit of marks.
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How it ends
Flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies, cactus in December
spaces silted with darkness
I didn’t know I liked the Sun
A multi- coloured chart without boundary
Not quite dawn. The plain white stare.
I go out for walking
somewhere along with my loneliness
narrow streams running through
River water mixed with my eyeballs
saying my poems?
Traces that stir
the waves of an old affair.
All day is stoic,
At dusk i wake with eyes wet.
I carry that and go off to bed again.
People like light rays, leave.
People like light rays, leave- Inspired by Sylvia Plath
Between the ribs,
the glow disappears into a surreal thing.
A wavy black mirage appears on a crushed paper
/ the piquant distance now,
Slipping between the cellulose air of void/
a mayhem of loose threads,
a dawn kisses by a hurricane,
Will things occur in heart now?
Or will the sit and devour the morbid mind?
of dust- laden mouths
filled with anger/ sins,
Oh humanity! The disavowal of sodden eyes,
almost each night, in darkness.
People like light rays, leave.
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Where do I stick flowers now?
The empty faces,
the mundane eyes.
The silhoutte of a dark river
shifting its path across my face,
turn by turn;
Where do I paint red shades of sunset now?
A myth of potpourri,
a lake of setting cold nostrils.
I pray and repeat my rituals,
a soothsayer of my belly now,
a tale forgotten.
A night of crippled stars.
Where do I sit and attach these sunflowers now?
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The night has a soft pattern to dismantle my body<
Quiet a as hushed wound with a flat curvature of a splitting fruit,
my body is a temple to wounds,
a temple to eat things that are fleshy.
The night lamps are soft ointments to soothe this loss .
A state of delirium, a state of despair.
These wounds are like flowers sitting atop my body,
Wounds- a silhouette of a silver limping leg,
a mouth that spreads shade of green fevers.
I have no where else to go now,
I rest my story to the empty nights,
a hollow stone is all that stays.
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my latest work can be read here.https://www.greeninkpoetry.co.uk/poetry-submissions-all/beginning-devika-mathur
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.
A poem so sad
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
a pendulum song.
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.
A spotless space
I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.
I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.
It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.
I have spot to cry to myself,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
I stare at this spot of mine.
A spotless sight
“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf
There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.
For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.
inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.
i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?
A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.
I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.
i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.
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.
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 for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.
Submissions for my collective olive skins here
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