The smoke of love

From my left toe, I bleed shouting the years of constant wound,

harsh numb, dead leaves hanging from my inner ear

The half lit candle smirks on my shrinking 

Bedsheet, that lacks you.

With the sway of pendulum I count my hearbeat, hearing the drop of water from

My lips to your sturdy chest

Pour the breeze of mountain chills on my unkissed shoulder,

Then stroke the brush from the galaxy and paint my body with auburm kisses

Play clircles, squares creating a beguiling art on my naval

Where the earthquake is created rupturing new glossy shoots, wandering 

For the further smoke of your tranquilizing face of love.

Corona

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I see you hanging from the roots of the mighty moon that join the oblivion distance between our naked space. This space is Point Blank. Your screams scratch your inner linings of delicate skin, producing an hour of a shooting star. A river of pervasive murmurs.

I walk along, to slurp the pain, the gain, the withering, the blooming onto my toe ring, soothing yet mystical. Burn the ash, lit the fire. Do you see the distance?

Flicker the holy waters onto your collarbone, smell its corona like fragrance.

Melt along with me into fragments of desire, lost yet found.


©my valiant soul

Poetry

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Under the clear skies with pearls of white words,
I knit my word into my emotion, repeat the process
brush, brush, and blink, blink.
Taking the ecstasy onto my teeth, I feel the caress of my saddest lines,
put it on my fragile white shoulder,
then cut my words and swallow the ink,
this is how I started Poetry.

With a blank space between my fingers,
with a crooked faith,
my breast was swollen with fire, the unflinching desire
thumping my murky pen, producing a river of composed mind,
producing the glitters of fairy dust
this is how I started Poetry.



 

Loop Of Hope.

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The world is a scorching lie, it gallops the light

swallowing the other half of a stale melon

climbing the stairs in a descending order

rubbing alcohol to one’s eye

the flaccid numb lugubrious eye

throwing dust in the basket of an old lady

And then cherishing the gaze of a falling star

crossing hair strands to form an impeccable knot,

I see, hardened rock in my navel, smothered like a beggar’s face.

The cryptic resonance, the elliptical sunrise

An egg-shaped lie.

Then, I see the light, white light adorning the dark background

forming patterns, jigsaw puzzles

Imbrication of susurrous paths, my eyelids wide open only

to scratch the remains of dirt

to pick up the lost child

and dancing towards the little loop of hope.



 

Time is Me

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Needles in my mouth, poking the sustenance of time
with a swab of cotton dipped in grey pause
A pause from the rigorous living and the dead,
beyond the veil, a harmony exists, a topology of Stardust
covering my naked breast.
A musical building devouring me with lust
sprinkling some on the nape of my neck,
Beyond this, precision exists forming clouds,
resembling my black locks elongating the path,
to travel the unfathomable soil,
the colour is not Auburn, it burns
it burns on my arms, it burns on my wet tongue,
twisting in forward steps,
each moment time moves, I stay here to glean the patterns,
to play hide and seek with the mirage, a shadow.
I draw curtains, performing segments to watch
the porcelain body of time’s shadow,
drawing paintings on the cerulean sky and I see,
a fragile moment of reflection
swallowing the colossal truth of me
Time is Me.



 

Drop dead beauty.

My flaky fingers hold my hope like the sacrosanct dusk, the better is my mind with the fall leaves, the turpid pick of the smoke, pulling strings impeccably, wretched you say?oh, I am just a maniac wandering on the ebb of tyranny, turbulence and war see the pattern?It’s beautiful though dark.

The puzzles cut my thumb,scars all over the white skin,
nourishing I call it
Jasmine, fresh flowers
the brutality spreads now in my eccentric jovial mind
straight in the pond of sinking lips
the pond of dropping diamonds.



Shades of emotion-the black-the red-the grey

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The Black

Hoops of the anxious soul are hanging in the most voracious way.I hear thunder, rustling silence.This is my first phase, anger.

The intimidating red eyes. The eyes of satan, they say. The faded shades of grey, charcoal, as my wrist remain crossed.

I put my wrist on top of my forehead.The sagging forehead.

The conundrum geography exists right here, sharply ecstatic.

Hot wax, profound depth, a lingering cold wave.

A dark, gruesome heart.

A ghost- like canopy of thoughts.

The Red.

This is a melancholic phase.

A lugubrious red sorrow shining on my pinky finger, the tales of the darkly skinned elbow.

the bends on my skin, my crooked skin.

the way sky forms uneven patterns,

leaving us bewildered of the richness, the great creations.

All I see is complexities, the bars of a collision, gateway of numbness.

A stoppage.

The vague dreams.

Now the heart is crooked.

The Grey.

A wave of cornered soul resists like the last droplets of rain.

Tiring yellow pages, not desiring to be read further.

Monotonous paths, monotonous tones, monotonous human.

I kiss my pain in a breezing way, hugging my own doleful pits.

the screams forms chains of comfort, the sky is indicating a pattern,

the crookedness is recovering into a deeper hole

name it comfort?Name it a bliss. Oh!Don’t name it.

As it’s still  a vivid hole, murky,

dark, distilled in my conscious, collided with my mindset,

it’s grey here, my palm is feverish

my eyelids are the coherence of deeper shades of grey

this is the phase,

this is the ultimate revival, mystical.