i have lived a thousands lives,
yet this winter is like a moth.
it has eaten me up,
from my toenail to my collarbone.
now i am naked. skin in pieces.
this winter, shallow waters of broken promise.
this winter, a conch doused in anaemic water.
i am no human today.
i weep like my ceilings.
wrapped up in my own silent time.
Who would pick me up?
like moon conjuctured upon my laps,
drawing seismic patterns.
its all about this winters.
P.s I may be taking an off from here. You all still can find me on Instagram by the same name.
Back at my vintage house in India,
i have a memory dying there on the windowsill, a cobweb formation.
a moth sucking life from another.
there, a cataract lie envelopes my pale body.
i see myself each day hushing this array of
blue stack of migraines.
i disavowal what made my pink- poetry once.
and here i am, twitched and degenerated.
the doors creak like this bone dropping
a soundless gape.
anxiety turns a woman into a liquid flower,
Again, i am an organ supporting my another organ, all alone.
my body is abnormally sensitive.
this mind a warehouse. And often, i walk
like a succumbed thing.
and home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
with my arms regenerating at nights,
to sulk my sins. Moist.
Women hear a falling noise. It savours their skin.
My motif heart breaks
like a pool of ugliness,
Last night’s love, now a vintage memory
how you mock my love, irritates me.
i revolve like an Earth,
sticking to the mollusc
and i fall.
fall like a group of galaxy
wild animals biting my skin
and I see you nowhere.
Nowhere inside me.
Nowhere uplifting my heavy stoned-arm.
You put me on bed
like an Old Wine to taste
till it drips and bursts.
Torrential streams of rivers of insanity.
I weep like a duck.
I weep like a drunk night.
(Soothing itself with its own light)
I weep and break.
You may ask the perforated sky
with drops of atoms
ripped apart from my chest
like the plunged rose, or honey-nectar.
A void in the sun.
A void in the star. Barren faces of slick dust.
And you will see where you left me.
This vintage arm
is like a faded memory
of streaming hope
the greys and the reds
a turbid of morbid dreams,
Scars slid, dancing,
they seem happy.
Scars are my baby now
my hallucinating body of madness.
pain is my adamant bowl of Ganges.
slipping between fingers of sickle.
Moist, melting inside somewhere
scars, you make me beautiful.
©Image and words MVS
a voice is creating a map inside
breaking my legs, my arms
into the eye of nothingness
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
my lids are dropping day by day
i considered rescuing poetry,
the pale fonts, tampered words
and it ate me, slurping mouths,
Vermillion floating mirrors,
stuck to my lips
and cracking the pain
on the floor for you to dance,
it’s a pattern.
it kills and kills
obdurate music of pain.
such coldness slipping,
stopping the clock of gods,
speaking or praying.
this coldness is chilling
with a hint of a lone heart.
i die here.
©Image and words-MVS
do you remember the blues
penetrating my veins
of penumbra stoic
your cutting voice of thunder
like a thorn poking
my chiselled neck & colour
my white skin turning weird
a stinking smell of appearance
& a missing map between cities.
cities of loss, cities of despair.
And i danced in the hollows of horizon
where liquids formed circles of numb rain,
you haunted me, ghost- like lemon peel.
and i peeled the layers, still & obvious.
With mercury dropping, lightings of heart.
( I am a sun- soaked, mosaic formation of wilderness & weed growing under your chin)
©Image and words- MVS
How do you define my perforated body aches with meteors dissolving? It’s an harrowing scenario with blood screams, thunders stuck to my backbone. Lipids going haywire and my eyes swollen with a pool of tyranny. Nostrils flutter like vintage sheets of paper, obsolete in obscure point. A point of missing mornings and seasons.
Each night, i hang like a loose memory, thermometer and fever, clinging my spinal cord and striking deaths and sins of sinisters.
The autumn leaves wrapped to my bare skin,defying the existence of bequeathed lives I survived. The midnight burning oils & lamps. The clocks of death. And my earthly body.
I perspire like an old lady, clinging to the curtains of pink breaths. With a casket of stars & hope swallowing like an infant, I fight oh yes I do. I precipitate and conjure in my linings of thin mucus, coughing disgusts and disgusts.
How do you define my motionless body now?©MVS