poetry

A swallowed truth/lie

Piquant Ray’s
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?


poetry

Anna

Pinterest

matching pink- stained
lips of mirrors
Anna, sew her flowers to the hair
like an oil-painting smiling,
something conjuring about her patterns,
the wavelength, the folds
all magical maybe.
Anna, in her mid 20’s
auburn ductile head & hair
with sheets of transparent
cling film, susurrus body.

almost a year ago,
a wife & a mother
with tunnels of story
sun-flower hands of mercury
now shifting,
her body movements
inch by inch,
in darkness & solitude
a shape shifter,
a fortune-teller,
rose collector,
anna is all of it,
a crooked truth.
you pluck a flower
& the land becomes barren.

®MVS


poetry

Music of pain

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

instagram


poetry

Shut down

I find no motivation here, things are abrupt. My writings have ruined I feel. Call it a writer’s block or whatever the fuck, I just don’t feel like writing and my creativity has been literally coiled in loops now.

I might close by blog, I might not. But surely I know, no one cares!

Peace and light to all.


poetry

Anna

Pinterest

matching pink- stained
lips of mirrors
Anna, sew her flowers to the hair
like an oil-painting smiling,
something conjuring about her patterns,
the wavelength, the folds
all magical maybe.
Anna, in her mid 20’s
auburn ductile head & hair
with sheets of transparent
cling film, susurrus body.

almost a year ago,
a wife & a mother
with tunnels of story
sun-flower hands of mercury
now shifting,
her body movements
inch by inch,
in darkness & solitude
a shape shifter,
a fortune-teller,
rose collector,
Anna is all of it,
a crooked truth.
you pluck a flower
& the land becomes barren.

®MVS


poetry

See- through -this- mind

I tried closing my pale eyes, like a water-chestnut dipped in currents and oceans
to put some relief on my maniacal themes, running like a sleep- walker. I converge, and dilate like music of light to imbue the monotonous sickening truth of your eyes. The sickening and sickening and sickening spit of your mouth.

I know it’s your zig-zag thousands salts of despondency, blur like a haze or an abstruse hook of pills and lies. Is it too bad for you? Or you want to dissect my ribcage, with a shovel of time. Spandex face, your smile a myth. I want you to change the sheets of my bed, change its theme and its moist forlorn tales. Could your reverse the pills and dig a choir of bursting waves of illusions & smear the sunken hope on my lips of mirror? They might crackle, if you run. They might become a figment of silver sound, lost yet found. Could you reach me out?
Like oil- dyed bodies collapsing and wondering. Like valleys & wine sticking to the mountains. Could you see it?


©MVS

NaPoWriMO#28

poetry

Madhouse- body

Your belligerent electric eyes
of swamps and tea bags
like vapours & death
picking my hair strands
to dissect me further,
oh you, mouth of monster
& shadow of half-naked moon.

i lie on my bed & count my reverse
motionless screams, words, screams
here in this room of death & poetry.
chapters of skin peeling, numb iris,
transparent lips of missing skies
i forlorn my ankles
of you and me.
and shiver the scoundrel body.
for this body is a madhouse.
like a concave arm of wax
dripping insanity, clocks
bells and words crooked-pungent.

©MVS-words

#NaPoWriMo-20


Uncategorized

Poetry and Ink.

No, it did not start with the extraction of bones and marrow. Neither, there was an epiphany.
I pluck my eyebrow with a sharp pencil, to check the skin underneath. A bizarre.

Mockery of a round square pats my naked back, yelling I have something inside my earlobe too.
So, I prick my navel and join the rummaging polka dots meeting my ankle, eroding the black spot finally.

What is there after all beneath my transparent skin? I burn. I burn.
Enough by now, drinking, smoking indivisible moments. They inundate like ant colonies.

For I have a single eye, a single lip, a single leg, a single tornado
The rest is a stone of Poetry and a wool of Ink.


poetry

Last Single Existence

I am silvered and stickered
in the blue’s of despair
hunting my scalp
down to the ankle stain,
recidivating, collapsing
For the roads are a summer breeze
tropical, slapping my coarse breast
the humming is repetitive.
like insanity clicking
Artless.

Viscous walks defy my extinction.
The roars and shouts, scrapping my last
single bit of blood
my last single ounce of sleep.
my last single mouth of chalks and blackboard.


©MVS image and words