I am a sound today,
an inaudible gentle drop of a midsummer dream.
I have a scarred arm,
An ear so small,
obnoxious ways of survival.
I evolve each day, still melting on toes.
Funeral baths peeling my cold skin.
There is abnormality happening on Thursdays,
and a prayer going on inside my head on Sundays.
I know too much on Mondays and
I become a sinner on Saturdays.
Look, I may slip monthly,
slipping almost like a surreal fall
with patches and band-aids sewed to the body.
I fail to be a silver moon
A hollow void that sits on my lap,
nonchalantly bleeding songs of despair.
I am all at once,
an elastic curve of black fragility.
I have seen women in a room
chilled as the mountain,
drowning in a ravenous shelter of heartache.
A feverish leg that jolts in summer.
Women breathe sand and exhale boken poetry.
Women in my town, dessicated in fumes of black clouds,
they do not speak about the evil talks now.
What is it that revolving between their cleavage?
White as their scarred skin,
summer rains blooming between thin eyelashes.
A star slips on their neck, nonchalantly
and they shove it back in their dreams.
a lullaby is eaten and forgotten, again & again.
P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins
How many times do I need to die
to keep you awake?
A figure of wax evolves and quietly speaks your name to me.
Your tangerine lips,
a lump of sugar and clove
all dissolved in my ears.
What is your language of love?
You reach my body with chemicals gushing
until the body shatters beyond a dot of oblivion.
I part in five thousand ways,
so vivid and distinct,
A chalice of fiction and midsummer’s song.
I breathe you like a ghost now.
With a thermometer put on my bosom
and eyes chanting your name forever.
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Tara remembers her doings. The pale kitchen sink speaking of chipped dreams, tectonic thighs of fidgeting swamp. Her lipstick is all nude today. Nude as the man of her dreams, saliva draped carefully between the folds of her lips.
And her purse sliding between her perfect round bosom. She wears sunrise as her makeup, with gleaming colors of a portrait. A hue of morning yawn. Her methods are clairvoyant. She sweeps a floor, performing a geometry to meet her desires, back & forth.
A bowl full of summer rains. Tara is a madhouse, today. Her cotton saree slipping on the floor, almost swaying the mosaic squares of the floor. She runs like a fever in a house. Moist enough to hold and gulp. An insouciant flower of the Himalayas. She would shove all the flickering desires, like the peels of onion and garlic in the bin. Not giving care.
Tara goes off to another house now. Pinning and swirling her hair with a bobby pin once again and she sweeps the floor again. A house so porous. Almost like a slice of starlight.
An entire life wraps itself
beneath the curtain of my orange mess.
You see few things here biting me like a void,
a fist to feel the pain
I have things half-written over here,
a half-written aesthetic journal
hammered down with sunburnt phases.
I have twigs of my memory
packed in a box of despair somewhere.
A point of subservience.
a poem falls
from my rinsed, soaked skin of spring.
I call it catharsis.
How my words dance around my convex neck,
how my creased papers sigh like a downpour.
And I all have is memories
of blue-bathed cloth
of sins& bottle-brush
All I have now is
rest for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.
Submissions for my collective olive skins here
I have a picture
punctured and ironed inside,
a tale of twin sisters,
rising above your waist
with a pastel grey voice of mind.
The coherence of mute environment,
is like a prayer to me now.
A green straw up in the sky sucking
the chambers to drink nectar of white life.
I have arrived here,
here in the painted head of open mouths.
mouths that utter olive seas.
Here, I gather & loose myself,
a percolating fly doused in a tea stain.
Too many arms now
up in the sky
breaking a blurb of dark howl,
A new slippery existence
a new machanism of conjunction of elements.
This room empty,
still folds a language of dots & moisture
holding a voice inside, holding a crescent of love inside.
It has triangular edges, sulking the memories inside.
A bohemian palm doused in laughter.
I linger here and there,
near the corner pale yellow table,
above the square corner of files, soiled poetry.
This room, a woman who is pregnant with all seasons.
Slipping through the comatose screams,
ink spilled on the salmon rug,
A sallow-skinned tear somewhere lost.
a shark shifting in the space.
An array of strange emotions exists on this bedsheet,
my eye of pastel sleep,
I expand a blurb of my mind all across this room,
noises as an arc,
the room is bleached now,
the stains like a parchment.
Things sit like a memory in our body of verbose light,
peeled, light as a foam.