Hunters-Down

I’ve been ripped and raped
with ferocious water ripples,
knives-steel cracked
Blood- bookmarked souls
rummaging through my skull
black&grey, still, molten.

The people are stale and ash
clicking wet tongues
eh,eh,eh,eh
dipped in morgues
and shadow of the death

With spits of fungus and moss
decoding their faces of hunger,
the world is a shit hole
anger and anger.

This place is a hoax
and a drop of glinting blood
on your chin,
on your hands,
on your rose opening.
The violence eats you
mental brewing of skulls and cracks
and this polka dot frocks, skirts
ripped and raped.

©MVS


Absent

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.


©MVS

The Ghost is back

Apprehensions sink in the dark cloudy layers

like the kohl of my waterline, the kohl of my heart

I am a clown or that saint of the temple, for people misjudge me

With deposition of tears, I shall settle too

in the obnoxious satin walls of turbulent words

Something swells up on my neck, triangles and diversion.

Trepidation. Trepidation.

The wax of candles is stuck to my mind,

dripping anger or illusion

the folds of my bedsheet recall my tear

perfectly imbued with the corrosive words, the abuses.

I decay again.


Resentment

Sun-dried lemon peels occur on my skin today,
For the sky sings dust and hailstorm
The segments of abhorrence and sensibilty play a jigsaw game.
For I have inhuman breaths you gave
on that turtle path of stinking array of roses clinging my soul.
I have heard your sorrows, laments to decipher the unknown
Still I am covered in the darkness of your crocodile shadow.

Inside Ghosts

Scratch my wounds

In avarice for further scratch

Burst the love seeds, only to discover

Another white layer of ghosts

The area of demure light-house 

swallowing the intransigent reflection 

on the seashore, killing molluscs

Spraying dark colour on golden fish

Peeling the outer space

Like a cold Potato.

Burn my ashes in my mouth

Discovered the inside ghost?

So carry that pointy dagger on my inept

Backbone, spill the blood

Spill on the modish pink cheeks

Turn me inside out

Do you now see? The inside ghost.