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.

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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

00ec3cbb5c58cafee58d7ceb324b45b2__011227876188205462096.jpgYesterday 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.


The voice

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.


hear this out

Toast the New Year With Vintage Shots of Ladies Drinking  - ELLE.com

this time,
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.
a pattern.

and i wake up the next morning to repeat the same insipid steps. I create art each day.

cravings/ THAT KILLS

 

Jacques-Henri Lartigue, Renee Perle, 1930-1931

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