I just published my poetry collection Crimson Skins on Amazon. Check it out.
The night has a soft pattern to dismantle my body<
Quiet a as hushed wound with a flat curvature of a splitting fruit,
my body is a temple to wounds,
a temple to eat things that are fleshy.
The night lamps are soft ointments to soothe this loss .
A state of delirium, a state of despair.
These wounds are like flowers sitting atop my body,
Wounds- a silhouette of a silver limping leg,
a mouth that spreads shade of green fevers.
I have no where else to go now,
I rest my story to the empty nights,
a hollow stone is all that stays.
ALSO, IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO SWITCH BACK TO CLASSIC EDITOR PLEASE HELP ME!
As you all know, I have started this lit magazine especially curated for abstract and surreal poetry which means a lot to me and so I urge you all to head over to this link and read this amazing poetry from a fellow poet.
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Elis has a paper ball texture, crisp and crumpled veins of love. Her nakedness is the march towards the fruits of springs, countless motions of time. Her liquid lips, cryptic to herself. She neatly defies the existence of frailty.
The frailty of summer’s hope and frailty of meadows spring.
The heaviness of swamp and linguistic seizures weighs her down, sinking her hand and arm. Missing parts of reality. A cocoon of dissatisfaction. A body of uncountable heavy eyelids. Elis does not speak of her curves and eyes, she dedicates her body and sacrifices her tongue. Rituals of greys and blacks.
Elis curls up her lips like a slice of burning orange peel. Her breaths, heavy, dissected, summoned like a stone eating her tongue. Her thigh eating her faith.
Elis craves and prays. For solitude to be her only stay.
a voice is creating a map inside
breaking my legs, my arms
into the eye of nothingness
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
my lids are dropping day by day
i considered rescuing poetry,
the pale fonts, tampered words
and it ate me, slurping mouths,
Vermillion floating mirrors,
stuck to my lips
and cracking the pain
on the floor for you to dance,
it’s a pattern.
it kills and kills
obdurate music of pain.
such coldness slipping,
stopping the clock of gods,
speaking or praying.
this coldness is chilling
with a hint of a lone heart.
i die here.
Photographs are blurred memories,
of faked, chipped, plastered walls
cracking like walnuts,
eating its own body-
Walls & bones dissolving
inside the tooth of dust,
memories can be fatal,
if picturized or vandalised.
All memories collide inside flaky cheeks
producing abhorrence of stars,
like a parasite
to your naked soul
& exposes the flimsy spots
of your entire galaxy.
Like the black spots
of a beautiful bird.
Wax droplets memories afloat.
My nights are inked
to the soiled sheets of tears
where the callous jaw bleeds inhuman poison,
or a thing pale as your heart
i sew it up to my nostrils, cold
the fragrance, shrieking my inside pits,
its dark, like blank spaces
Everything seems to be a show- off
your hands, your lips
my intelligence to care,
the nights turning them into molten pieces,
i die and become a ball of clay,
stuck to my body,
a parasitic drop of blood.
And there i lie
all dead and black,
with hemisphere dwindling,
and mouths missing
white thick slurp of warped words,
darkness runs in my heart,
like a lighthouse to my dreams.
your slurpy mouth holds magic
to sediment a stoic seed
of silence, like silence.
calm shades governing,
a tip-toed saliva of blank eyes,
a life kissing a life.
behind your earlobe,
the sky falls,
in tunes of carbon
thick slices of carbon.
coal romances with fire,
life exists everwhere.
My fingers are our lips,
deluged & soaked
in our memory of sunset walls,
with an eye of the heart,
scavenging our skin,
altogether, in patterns,
i want to be your mouth
with soft pearls of moth,
i want all of your body.
I could smell your wine,
your amniotic sheets
of pure stars and silicon lullaby,
regenerating my outgrown toes and stale stairs.
this head wrap is a lie,
if your nights do not talk to mine.
You become my pool of waters and waters
that kills my dead skin, on repeats.
You wander, like a dream
soft and tiny
in my 4 A.M talks, the moment of collision
I see your swapping legs and arms
kisses and poetry
tears and scars,
A mulberry sheet of dreams.
I could smell you once again
in the words of pillow marks,
in the arch of my windowsill.
Knitting and defying this entire life,
you do it in a pattern.
You do it always.