Slow as a neighbour’s plant
Slow as a ripple static
An oblong wax melting away,
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
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.
A small dot and a fanned breath of a leaf.
I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
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 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,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.
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 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.
you scavenge while dreaming.
to sniff a piece of hope.
I do speak in four voices
that swirls my lock of hair.
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
till I see a circumference of white powder
there, inside my mind
blooming the entire prayer
in colors of myth and violet rain.
Submit your writings for Olive Skins. Check out the post here
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.
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
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,
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.
“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.
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.
Have you ever washed your face like a duck?
standing infront of the mirror, that speaks an insane story about you?
a swamp of retractable wounds.
It’s not about the dirt I carry,
this emptiness sits and gawks at me, like a mother.
I often watch the pattern of breakouts on my cheeks.
Is this how I shall die, slowly like a mole?
Ah, even the moon often casts a pneumonic sound on chest,
and the heaviness is inexplicable.
Salmon- skinned my arms, speaks a tale of afternoon,
a silver silhouette tale of remorse.
the day when I evaporated and never came back.
I am afraid though of my shadow,
afraid of my own body organs.
These lips may slip like Thames
and eyes can be dissolved, mortified.
/ Nobody in this room knows survival/
words are winter to these humans.
They are cold, obliterate.
Today, I do not care.
I do not care for petrified unction.
In hummus, fingers dipped in maniac voice
and mind speaking something demonic,
I might be hopeless as they say.
Call me elastic, a warped box.
Yes,I lack moisture.
A tune to drink and fly.
That’s the voice of a woman.
A clinging kryptonite photo frame.
my ribs are the house of tears of walled up cities, lost.
a sunken pool of total insanity, you might say.
i want to feel antique, like a vintage lampshade burning bright
in the corners of total darkness.
a flower of hope, blooming on my hip, on my lip.
this insanity does all the bizarre things, like a foot inside a mouth,
choking the timeline of flashbacks.
the mewl of sighs, swollen up, gazed up.
i could armor myself, like soft breeze
only at nights now, hallucinations maybe?
the broken air that traps my waist, sits next to me.
it calls me her baby.
a moist conversation.
i often hear whispers of this brain clinging my mouth,
it offers silent prayers too.
i burn with a film of oil in the tongue.
a poisoned needle that disturbs a human.
so, i paint my skin with a nude color of weeds,
to camouflage like a sky in the sky.
words lost in words.
and i wake up the next morning to repeat the same insipid steps. I create art each day.
There is the feeling of my wrists slipping oiled lights through my swollen thumb. Hay through pictures of past. A hum of lights and dust.
I turn through the thick air, a vacuum of period spaces. But I am more than this.
more than the grasshopper that sits and eats twig nonchalantly.
washed, wasted, my iris of dreams.
i could sit on the summer grass, the winter sun,
marking the gullets of the path.
something that wants me.
i remember my small fingers,
enclosed like a dainty lotus
afraid of lights,
for that light killed many people.
it is the thread of old vintage sheet i eat.
i eat memories.
i eat cities.
i eat streets.
All the lonely people- an anthology
it’s that time of the month
when the earth blooms like a bride,
and a thumb of life splinters.
fragments of the earth, the moon
like a mahogany autumn kiss,
divides my body into two beautiful halves.
I am a blossom now,
a dew on the foreheads of Gods.
Those gods who created a dimension of soil inside me.
Blueberries that speaks a truth about springs.
I give births, i take births
a circle of life.
effeminate blisters chiselled onto my hip.
I do not take rest like the sun, the moon.
i am a supernatural flower of crumpled anxiety.
So, I gather and gather, sunbeams, lilies
a soft thorn, honey, raindrops.
as much as i can,
to slip it all into my jaws,running
through the streams of loneliness of this fish-shaped eye.
A memoir of rusty olives.
hanging like saliva from my forehead.
I am a bizarre lady with a half lit moon.
I have been a lover, a mistress, a daughter.
a tempest swirling from the eye of truth.
Slipping from the gullet of time.
And now, i create a fantasy of hallucinations.
An empty bed with an empty mirror.
to collect the parenthesis of wishes and words.
a violet mauve touch of my small finger.
these hours are sand of jewels.
perfume stuck to my wrist that clicks plum nectar,
i walk alone now,
like hair swinging wildly in the summer breeze,
i watch myself o this mirror,
it choked me to death.
I might walk alone tomorrow also,’
while going to the market for my pills
shifting from the vents of miniature delights.
a cloying disease.
i have lived a thousands lives,
yet this winter is like a moth.
it has eaten me up,
from my toenail to my collarbone.
now i am naked. skin in pieces.
this winter, shallow waters of broken promise.
this winter, a conch doused in anaemic water.
i am no human today.
i weep like my ceilings.
wrapped up in my own silent time.
Who would pick me up?
like moon conjuctured upon my laps,
drawing seismic patterns.
its all about this winters.
P.s I may be taking an off from here. You all still can find me on Instagram by the same name.