Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.

I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indi(e) Blue Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.

 

Thank you for always reading and supporting me.

Devika

Slow

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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.

On Dreams

L o r e e e h h

Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.

Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.

You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.

                       It does not matter
                           anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.

There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.

It does not matter.

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A blank slate

Ethereal vintage satin and lace princess dress | archiverie

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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Oranges

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There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.

The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?

The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires

step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.

Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)

Splash,
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.

There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.


Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence

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How bad is my poetry?

I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
No.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.

I announce I am rather happy
but then
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic

But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
and then
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
collapsing
exhilarating
dying
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.

Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.

The face of a woman

Model Lexi Boling is styled by Carolyn Murphy in pure femininity for 'Blithe Spirit'. Photographer Sebastian Sabal-Bruce is behind the lens for Porter Magazine #26 Summer 2018./ Hair by Edward Lampley; makeup by Allie Smith.

I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,

yawns in the afternoons,
doping shadows
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth

The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories

by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.

The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z


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The Awakening

1950s Unlimited

Tablecloth,
wet bedsheets,
branches/ twigs entangled
between the phosphorous skin of ours.

Circles of slow breaths
sighs,
deeper of magenta blush
The months become cold.
almost nostalgic,
fever rushing through veins
& chills of hypnosis

against the walls,
on the kitchen slab
we spread our colours
while the black night absorbs our love
through the static throat

But then…
then, then, then,
I collapse
here on your pencil neck
only to watch the mornings again
constant motion, blurring the hands in the sun.

April

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And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.

These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
crickets squeaking,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,

I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.

My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.

It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
blank sheets,
rattling sky.


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My work on Spillwords was published here.

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A Still Life

My last night’s ritual falls on this table
watching a landscape spread across, vivid blue with raw images
of skies, wrappers of sunsets.
life from life
splitting beneath the heaviness of that sky.

A shadow sits on the curtains,
carefully weeding out
like music
Observing the forms of love that occurs.
Cheeks of orange crepe, cracking
a voice so brave and young I could hear.

A bed with two chairs.
Watching things falling in a syntax
of a molted clay
shaped like rooms inside a room.

I am again pondering
over chilled cold nights
over topic about men & Gods
as the air slips through my lips.

The existence that lives outside the memory.