The Narration

Image result for virginia woolf
Nothing has really happened until it has been described”- Virginia Woolf

The sun departs the space, leaving shades of colors
colors that make you vomit about your own deeds.
The sky is bleached now,
Liting and spreading haphazardly
The first kiss should be described as the volatile movements of a poet’s pen,
a bumblebee poking the thin air,

Sometimes it’s worthless.
This continuous fight for survival,
the pervading lies of a head
so I describe a single fall of an ant in the lakes.
I could watch a blooming flower and write poetry in my head.

The fall,
the abortion, the play
the oil lamps,
the puerile laughters of children
they summarize a thing happened once.

Nothing has really happened until it has been described.

what makes my skin so bright

 

I chop a slice of moon
of an excellent shard from a mirror,
I take a dip in a splintering winter well,
the well of charm & despair,
the evening air does the rest of the job
the apricots stitched onto my lips
my lips forbid to tell your secrets
there,
there is nothing inside the gateway to chivalry,
a half-eaten fruit
a half-read poetry
a half- kissed muse

There it is
I can feel it freely
a gallop of a hysteric wave,
a sunrise, so distant

you need the recipe?

see my knuckles, the hard egg shaled nails,
a fever running through my belly,
they all bow to my cheekbones,
my cheeks ingest your lies too.
How about it?

Will it be a part of the regime too?

and a salt-glazed cup
of electric moon

it didn’t take long,
to be like this.
i wept also.
I wept and wept
till my skin floated in the air so pristine,
and here you have my secrets
for what makes me glow
like mountains, valleys
You never noticed, never, fool!

A Four Light Window

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1

the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks

2
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
broached interpretations
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God

3

The third is the grass

you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.

4
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
Not anymore.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.

Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy

Dimensions of Pain

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Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.

Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.

i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.

A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.

I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.

The slip

moldavia: ““ph. Ola Rindal ” ”

Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.

A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.

Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
forever palpitating,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
here,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.

My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.

The Look

 

I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.

At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.

A spotless space

I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.

I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.

It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.

I have spot to cry to myself,
Winter tangerine,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
Motionless,
Body apart.

The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
Weeds growing,
Stories knitting,
I stare at this spot of mine.