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.
lights on this orange body,
this wood is a proof
my mouth is a squid,
hanging to catch your wet breath.
a fainting memory eats me.
for i am a sucker of bones & heart.
this is a spot of us, darling,
the summery grass of love-making.
i bite my scorched lips,
i bite my tongue to feel your departure,
and i feel hollow as a black spot.
a trajectory of million dreams.
stilness often wraps my swollen body,
and flicks my elongated neck,
until i eat your face, simple & molten.
i am that vase, half- lived.
half floating and it sucks to be like that.
” I am terrified by the dark thing that sleeps in me”- Sylvia Plath
Cluttered, torrential nights of stone sinking throat,a huge titanic of this time,
my sheets turning into white ghost,
a ghost of you,
my words that were never said.
You, the lantern of chipped nights,
A mesh of annihilation.
You come and perch on my dreams, like satan a missing subsisting eye or a lip. Time kills me before you make me dark, dark as my old rusty windowsill,
with a dying flaky dream.
this thing inhuman wraps my skin of lemon peels
my skin of words and reverie.
my darling skin…
( continuous screams of inexplicable pain, now/)
scissors of tongues missing
like threads sewing volcanoes.
And my lazy tears twist my body like valleys.
I sip pain,
i see pain.
I hear and live pain(patterns corrosive)
With footsteps entwining my jawlines.
A narrow gauge of breaths and pool of sadness
this moment does that abrupt epilepsy to me,
this dark hollow night,
underneath the white sheet of smiles,
a monster hides.
Each day is a delusion,
my words and poem a levitating hue of cry.
The modal of life explained in a Polaroid,
i might die writing this last piece,
softly, like autumn i shall moult,
into a panorama of white skin
hanging loose, pale parchment paper.
a breathless wildflower of atoms falling.
a cold sliver slap of time,
i sense darkness, in a pool of parched lips,
eyes shut, heart shut
limbs shut, mind shut.
and there i am
a wallowing question of an existence,
kneading a rope of knot
Once again, i walk in portions,
an adamant sustenance of life..