Slow

Slow as a neighbour’s plant
vindictive, timid.
Slow as a ripple static
hush.

An oblong wax melting away,
slow,
slow as raindrop stuck on a tree

As a splash of colour unable to blend
a monologue twirling inside my stomach
a song so old
with cough drops all around the drawers

dying
slow
dying

repetitive
insipid
Once a melody
now only an arm
now only a forehead
nothing at all

A nightmare in blue
It knows nothing now
only a flat desperation of air
The feet knows the crevices of life.
Look carefully..
there!
A small dot and a fanned breath of a leaf.

Slow.

A blank slate

I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.

Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.

I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.

These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.

The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.

I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.

(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)

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A poet too insane

A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.

I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
too thin,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.

A sedative

I want to quieten my mind
and each day I would count ways to do that.
Popping pills backward / gazing at the starlight
until dawn slaps me all over again.
A memory of death fidgets with my tectonic body.
I become so slow.
slow like degrading with the earth.

I count ways to quiet my mind while writing this poem.
There is a drop of water on my palm which freezes my hand,
like a singular stem of the numb horizon.

Hush, hush, hush.

I see my reflections
dying in the soiled air that slips upon my lips.
Violet and brown.
A colourless dream often.
I want to rest quietly,
with no connections any more

I could stare a small spot on the ceiling
like a moth
trying to endure a lie.
My words are epileptic today
just like me, all wobbly.
I stand here in a sitting position like a lotus,
and my organs defy my breath.
This poem is a bizarre,
try not to comprehend anymore.

A prayer

a prayer so soft
I mumble each time
There is a method I perform my chants
like sticking to the table,
thumping my wrist against my forehead.
I wish to sneeze while praying
to eject sins,
a horror bowl that rests between my toes,
twirling softly and eating me bite by bite.

My prayers are often lullabies.
Muted voices
you scavenge while dreaming.
I pray
and pray
and pray
to sniff a piece of hope.
I do speak in four voices
that swirls my lock of hair.
Goosebumps now.
I repeat my prayers when I am a shadow of a fallen sky
a bird that refuses to watch me.
nature has its way to corner from the human.

Without a shard of primrose,
A scourge of shaved earth.
And I change places
to chant
to sleep
to pray
till I see a circumference of white powder
there, inside my mind
blooming the entire prayer
in colors of myth and violet rain.

 

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Effortless

I have a picture
punctured and ironed inside,
a tale of twin sisters,
rising above your waist
with a pastel grey voice of mind.

The coherence of mute environment,
is like a prayer to me now.
A green straw up in the sky sucking
the chambers to drink nectar of white life.

I have arrived here,
here in the painted head of open mouths.
mouths that utter olive seas.
Here, I gather & loose myself,
a percolating fly doused in a tea stain.

Too many arms now
up in the sky
breaking a blurb of dark howl,
A new slippery existence
a new machanism of conjunction of elements.

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A blue attack

Blue, blue.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.

a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.

Paint it dead.

submit your words here

https://bloodintoinkpressblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/29/call-for-submissions-there-is-strength-in-our-stories/

termination

Like i wished for a moon today,
this dirt of rocks life throws at me is amazing
amazing to watch the disgusting melting person in bed,
That’s me.

i do nor design this body of mine,
the sleekness, tenderness, whiteness.
At times, i feel i am hollow.
Hollow like a coconut’s head.

i want to stop my brain.
Potboiler. Frequent attacks. Time slapping me again and again.
i want to stop it all.

cold room

“That stale air you think of
is heaviness surrounding the numb teeth.”

It’s dark, It’s the night.
we slumber with mouths open trying to please.
trying to pick lotus with our heavy lips.
I stare into this earth which holds me like a baby,
and then the flashback of pills and heartaches.
that moment of a swiveled cloud of tears.

It’s done now,
Circling around life needs a solid heart,
a solid tongue to lick,
lick, the translucent powder of fever.

Under- observation

Yesterday was the hardest if i must say
with amniotic sheets of lost air dripping my bare chest
and extraction of arms,
making my mouth dry, loss of homes could be seen.
Missing phone booth’s of lavender drops of deads,
and hunters, hunters, hunters,
yes, you have visited the I.C.U of my mouth
with palpitating halogens, demarcating a cleft of my chin-my knee
the knuckles bleed, towards the Polaris of numb soil,
if that’s a place, so, i am flowing.
i am flowing, doped and surreal
in hands of hours
clocks mocking my body, the six-inch pits of pits.
i sit and hum a vintage song here,
a dainty varicose nerve revolving now,
i am being operated in the midnight,
among the lamps, the shades, the silhouette
i am being deluged in occurrences half meadow,
my home is the plain stench of the sun.
it sits somewhere inside my hair, city of maps.
it’s late and i am under-observation still.

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