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image credits- Google
image credits- Google

Fill the cacophonous rhythm of my mirrored-eye
with the cosmos and nightlight
entwined with grapevine of smiles,
A complexion of you, a shadow.
The craters enjoy the stratospheric
reds, greens, million of boomings.
I worship, with visual feathers,
burgeon smells, intoxication.
The deep smell of my pores
pronounce your name,
multiplying in the furtive eminence.
Then, the thunders dance
smearing lipstick of love,
coughing the dirt of abstruse corners
conquering the walls of illusion.

©My Valiant Soul


Beyond Hope

The night knitted our bodies like lanterns lit
with navy-blue aromas,
with currents storming
with sands under my body of hope,
with utopia and songs messed up in my head.
You wrapped my raisin skin,
performed colourful themes
like an Orion singing,
poetry dancing.

The night stimulated
the thunderstorms,
with Petrichor,
dripping from my tongue
With sunflowers melting
on our wax bodies
And the texture changing,
Earthquakes happening.

I grew a day older that day,
to see your landscapes and pyramids
sulking on my lips
sulking in my eyes,
A destiny.
You bit my neck that night
and you saw your name imbued
in frames and pieces
like a soft cloth residing
under my moonlit blood
You knew that day, we shared something more
beyond the stars.
Like Spring approaching.



The Ritual.

Image result for casais vintage

Darling, my lips measure your spaces and wounds
with the thumb, I knit seismic waves on your back
Paradises stitching, lands coinciding inside
Like a wildflower, I bloom here.
Soils: A bark of memories, red and black.
I travel beneath the surfaces and measure
the cleaving knots, dome-shaped illusions.

Light strikes the stardust and I am a Mirror again
Foretelling your miseries
Holding the icicles of stories on my palms,
I have a newborn skin tonight,
with things to clean
with love as sweet medicine
with White curtains
Sun-kissed air, I am a falling bridge
Having a heart as your canvas.
Flickering. Motionless. oh, Darling.


The Patterns and Folds


These lines, mahogany smell

Orchid base— prediction,flavour.

A loose arm of sky swings

inside my bowl of emptiness.

The colours dim and the henna evaporates

It criss crosses my legs and eats up my entire body

A parasite. A swollen body.

I walk in the room and the razor cuts sharpen

Folds and pattern twists the softness

and corrodes the dewiness.

A slice of Death iterates here,

Something still at pause ( no gerund, no punctuation)

I think again

about this life,

I walk again

in the pits of life.

I am a liquid naphthalene ball.

Round and white. Evaporating each day.

thriving from square to square.



Natalia Vodianova by Peter Lindbergh

Something is missing in the pit of my stomach. I feel the charcoal staircase rupturing, then filling in the cracks of the blank moon. Devastation. Delusion. I see my blue arms extended to the poles of molestation, a sudden resolution of black and white vintage movies. My kitchen sink evaporates somewhere. Devastation.

The monotony of this body screams till my black walls fall, a sunken truth in this concoction of empty bowls and folded curtain stretches. Elasticity. The hands are empty, crooked, decayed.

Oh yes, there is an eclipse appearing on my black braids, swinging swiftly like my lips did once to lick that butter kiss. Appearances and traits are cellophane clinging to my white forehead. The lights appear bound, seized. Stagnate.

I pray and pray to wither the molten frames and fragments. Catharsis. Purification.

The cheek tint once filled the blue sky, the blue water, with sheets of pure cotton. Fidelity loops sinking onto the carvings of my feet. Parachuting in the snow. That was then.

For now, I see the mockery of time sitting onto my sharp laps, like a reservoir or a womb, gazing as I decay and fall and shatter and shatter into ashes.


As I need You

Your collarbone clicks stars

poultice on my lips,

Beneath your tongue, I sit and sing

with wavelengths sticking my iris,

my newly born legs, bosom divine

weeds grow in this prismatic air,

 between my fingers and your coiled words.

Temperatures romance and seductions occur.

In the warmth and futility,

hallucinations weave your face on my pillow

I lick it and suck it. 

Colours vibrant and molten

I lick it and suck it, 

your face is my religion.



I desire the things which will destroy me in the end- Sylvia Plath

Image result for sylvia plath

Give me a cauldron, a soaked cotton firmament

multiplied and divided,

in the sunshine of cigars and the owls of dark

Pulverized ropes of hollow imagination, it flatters me.

I want to put my foot in the skull of my brain

and measure the elasticity, the gravity throbbing.

Your smell locks my lips, susurrous allusion

with your diamond dents and abstraction

Kneading your mouth to my skin

my pores to your arms,

loose like vapours dissolving into the colossal violet sky

So, I crave you and your moist   moist     moist     tongue.

A little does not fulfil my throat,

I want the dirt, and the limericks broke and joined

with the sustenance of deluge inside my veins.

The remains and ashes,

the blue-bells,

the clock between my mind and my doings,

insane movements, I want all.

Slick slurps of hatred and love

clinging my iris and legs.

I want all things bad and eccentric.


PS.-Because I am running out of inspiration, I could always find some,  from this amazing evergreen poetess. She is simply astronomical.

My poem on Visual Verse can be read by you all  here.


What ‘it ‘does to me

Let me say this precisely.

I entered in your walls of quietness to flutter, like vapours and fumes

with hushed heartbeats —baked body,

Titanium slipped its coffin like a bell tower

inside my teeth and foot

empty and broken whispers

I entered in the temples, with doughnuts swinging

charcoal breaths coagulating my sanity

insane, insane she is insane

Cracks and mosaic

filters these walls, like a moth biting a moth

and insanity blooms, for the time, is spring

incessant murderous time( If I have time, I will perform discectomy)

Incongruous, incompatible.

I stick to a shadow of curtain,

absorbing its peachy warmth, rotating and curling my lips, my hips

and I rub my palms to enter once again

in your swollen canopy of saneness.


Memories are just memories

For memories does not spark my romance with life

Nor do they slip through the curtains of moisture.

All these years, even when I was a teenager,

I watered the dying roses and Orchids

Flushing a spew of lightning and rock salt

People became a mystery to me, leaving me stained

Behind the sturdy brown doors, a knobless door

And then began a veracious knitting

of words with emotions

I popped millions of pills, smoked cigars

Innumerable open wounds made me ugly, they said so.

Placid openings spewed disgust, Torrents powerful.

So, memories clasp you, twist and give a sudden twitch

They furl and embrace your naked soul,

Immersed in the droplets of blood and ink.

Memories are nothing but floating crisp memories.


image courtesy- My Valiant Soul