the only thing that matters

yes, its the drop of ink
on my mouth of hallucinations.
The pink, wet curvature of hope.
I am not always dark, for all you think so.
I often melt and float with a sestina on my hip.
A swollen ebb of amnesia and what not.

I am an empty room with a mahogany chair soaked in the sun.
I often swing like neem trees.
Those are the things, blue as ink and sturdy as ivory.
And i knit such dreams into my belly button.
Generating brick buildings on soft petals.

I don’t have much to say on these days.
I am often lonely in silence too.
Those things spread their luscious arms.
Its eternal, still body.

A capsule with powders of night secrets.
for those are the things i carry at my spine and lungs.
things that really matters.
Things that i pray of distilled white.


 

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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.


I float like a spot

i see you spreading like blob of colors
sunset inside your mouth,
a hundred nights of sickness grows.
somewhere, arms growing like a living room.
mother, your chin spewed chemicals,
on the night I was born.
1:00 am. a night that swallowed both of us.
You carried varicose time on your sickening waist,
like time made you of clay.

and you heard my voice of lace mucus.
screams growing like fingernails.
you said i must grow, where ever planted.
mosaic pieces stuck to my pharynx.
big- boned, thin legged,
i am 26 today mother, i still bleed,
the way you did last night.
am i you? or life is ingested like you
into my system.

i try shutting my eyes,
inhaling,
inhaling
inhaling.
a thing you detached from your wrist.
_______________________________

a thing about winters

the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
hidden beneath,
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.

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.


Understanding it all

i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum

i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.

thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.

The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.

and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.
________________

Living with poetry

 

Each day i grow poetry out of my stillborn toes
where words drip honey, moisture and powder to evolve,
Words.   They rotate inside my iris, whirlpooling like catharsis.
Inch by inch, shifting like the moon,
embossing the sky, they perch on orchids,
to suck nectar,
to suck poetry from there.

And I see and grow outnumbered limbs all over my body.
The facets from my skin leak poetry as a seduction,
Romancing to ink, stains and silhouettes,
Life’s favourite romance is with poetry.
I have prolonged life maybe
and words are a lengthy delusion,
Quieter yet stronger.

I lit a forest inside my body.

collision

i want to collapse in the horizon
where the moon melts into the sky,
a perforated splutter of cleaved dreams
melting like red crayons.

a ghost-like mirage,
fighting and swimming
like ancient thoughts,
i still want to be as white as silence.

slender apple-shaped my thigh,
fidgeting, a forgotten memory.
I am blue today.
I am black today,
sequences are resting like twigs on my belly,
making me rest, making me wild,
making me spin and spin.
I want to collapse like earth today.

Old souls

throbbing, cystic window panes.
of mercurical hallowing cry of throat.
a vintage cacophony of soul stiching
another soul, a twig to hold.

time floats,
a grey crux of skull.
floating from me to you.
and along with, we float.
in the orange burning nights,
of salvation and pain.

P. a. i. n/ reality

Image result for dark purple grunge tumblr

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 doe that abrupt epilepsy to me,
this dark hollow night,
underneath the white sheet of smiles,
a monster hides.