The touch.

Change my atoms of body.
make a sin out of this floating skin.
A lotus. Inhale my vapours like a sun kissed windowsill.

A slice of moon sits on my neck watching your toes circling my platonic waist.
a waist that hold your liquids, your solids.

A moment of sigh and resemblance.
Make me your thread of conjectures of dreams and skins.
a poets habitual routine.
Slit my thigh, a green antena.
suck my thoughts, a spiritual dot.

a map depicts your mind, soft and beautiful, here.

Details emerge as a florescent green bush,
beneath my thumb of silver weeps.
Sip my thoughts. Decorate. Redraw my body.
Hold my toenail. Be careful.
Be careful, I might slip like a fallen star.

NaPoWriMo # 16

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windows and mirrors

Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.

This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.

Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.

Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.


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.


A women’s spring

i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

The Way I Do It.

Related image
My Phospherent body of raisin skin
 moans and swells like a process of Spirituality
 with fingers clinging your mouth,
 your scars, your lips, your teeth
 and your heart of surrealistic reverie.

I become a thunderbolt,
 in the opulent windows of dreams and smiles
 wearing your white shirt, I swing.
 I swing like an autumn leaf,
 cascading down your throat,
 that black spot on your chest
 You thump and palpitate my arms.
 Spring is born between our naked lips.

The temperature of cold walls crack
 in the slices of Orion blue.
 A stardust drinks the entire Constellation
 Life trembles and illusions occur.
 I breathe you somewhere between
 the spaces of my index finger and my thumb now.
 I wear your sins on my mercury tongue
 levitating branches and seeds of satisfaction, darling.

©MVS

and. i. grew.

P I N T E R E S T // aubreeweaver

my dress is an Ocean of your orange skin,
the soft lullabies, tapping beneath the arms
joining cities of lust, a blue tip of tongue knowing
the pits of this coal lowlands,

it started with your wet tongue, caressing my lips
mouth like a band of tendons, tobacco burning in the palms.
your scripted hands, your oil dripping scripted hands,
they are imaginary lines in my mind.

thunder simmers in my skull, whitening the black
the deep-rooted balmy glass of kiss, stains and cigars.
Lemon and peeper sound, we sink in the moments of this.

and somehow you made me grow, preserving, pickling
beneath the dome heart of your nail,
I grew.
i grew like a sun.


p.s- please keep up with me even if I am unable to reply your comments as of now.

Give me/ something

perhaps i got caught between your silk fingers,
gently throwing the vomit away,
petals of lips brushing away,
swaying like thunders.

perhaps, i slipped into you
before time,
before spring could collapse on my belly,
time sticks too many collection.

i am bloodlust,
caffeine on the stove, incensed.
expanding like perforated sky
only to melt like never before.

a stretch of copper sky,
hips full of smoke & nostalgia.
perhaps i loved you way too much.

give me a moment erupting like shreds of golden mirror,
honey dripped touch,
mouths swallowing a sweet lie of ours.
something like that, but real.