the body swells
in the anarchy of lunatic afternoon
the mouth fumbles,
dripping sonnets from the toes,
the face gulps the horrors
swiveling across the pale streets,
i sing a song so full of flat tune now,
in the small clots of blue sky.
and I never stop staring at that sky,
that lump in my small throat,
a wound so uglier now.
There is such an alkaline dance of the naked goddess inside my womb.
I become almost infallible.
with blue moons, in my chest,
it sings a song so perfectly,
with small droplets of water sleep on the floor.
There exist multiple tunes intertwined with shadow
of my despair song.
I sit in the open lawn
a lawn full of earth and skeptic memoirs
the scattered Congregation of unskewered mind.
I see a mushroom sprouting here in the garden,
the thick shoots clinging another.
Co-existence must be a plaster?
And then I hear the temple bells,
altogether, the sound similar to my mother’s laughter.
but there are other moments occurring in the noon,
a cry so stuffed with the yellow air,
thick & warm,
moist layers of Earth’s lip.
Other occurings happen
where the housewife takes an oath to fight,
a child who hums the songs of surrealism
There is a hem of nebulous despair lined down my skirt
as if it holds the grief of the entire city,
the tattered brood of paper roses.
I find serenity in the eyelids of pain, too often.
What does it make me?
An artist or a doctor?
Nature, in the noon, spills the seeds of a distant truth
to thy naked eye.
“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.
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