The night

There are different ways in which i sip my tea
the one that dwells inside my chest speaking of you,
your eyes are my favourite perfume,
a rivetting hiccup that soothes my freckles.
My tea speaks of you in ways indefinite.
The body is incoherent, beating loudly to sit beneath your ailments,
your feverish toe that curls my belly.

Where do you travel during nights?
Like a poem dissolving into the sheets of soil,
amidst the wild sky
where i sniff the patch of cold winter,
you only you can do things to me what the earth does to sky.

The trees have begun to dream again
of embroidered romance and things beyond
of goddess and intinate corridors.
Of lust & prayers.

We lick each other like palpitating cotton candies
then close into our scuped veins
levitating in the air,
We become full into a phenomenal clous of moans.

In transmission lines,
I suddenly become aware,
nocturnal hiss of bed sheets of sounds.

The mind of a Poet

 

I have this indigo skyline infront of me,
expanding the vastness
i put my thoughts about it into my blood.
not swallowing it down to my veins
i have thoughts about thoughts,
my pale tea leaves dissolving so fervently into the water,
the sorbet pouring down the jug till the rim creaks

i have you in my mind now,
sipping my cold talks,
between the creaking of mountains and bed,
I split & tear
quenching, reaching like tides.

A poet’s mind is never too quiet
it absorbs even as the sky expands with colors so unbearable, quietly.
And i do not refuse death, so that you may know.
I knead my loneliness safely down my sweet- ankle apple,
all through th trembling small palms.
I keep it to my body, somehow.

on many other occasions, I would weep through a lipstick and a forlorn tale,
a tale you must not know,
eating a fruit so wild,
shutting off the dim lights
There is a process of a thin black band expanding
as if the body is swaying through the knowledge that is wild.
I am often so subdued as if everything is disgusting.

The poet’s mind is too insane to write a word like
//

M I R T H//

through the shards of the ceilings.
Death makes so much sense to the poets,
they almost survive the death each night.

smell of death

this is to my property,
to my poetry
that sinks beneath the cave of obsolete synonyms
a blob of blur pain,
a vasectomy to the skin of dreams.
There are things still left to comprehend for me,
like the voices of women,
in the kitchen
in the lawns of hilly areas,
a tree that speaks of death is already a dream.
i pace it, sniffing
in a thick gray- death soup
A space for a thing I am given
of indifference
i have memories growing like a weed on my knuckles,
a stale one.
a desiccated one.
but memories can make you think like a hurricane,
a dead star already?
a hospital that collects the voices of pain
in a bowl of mercury dipped cry
and the men,
all scattered
looking upon the rim of thin cloud
a transparent powder of dream
there is absolutely nothing there.
a sound that makes you believe in God is actually time!
priceless and quiet
my fingers…
they melt and sag,
they are told
Do not Touch..
It’s a smell of Death.
Rub and sniff it.

song of despair

 

the body swells
in the anarchy of lunatic afternoon
the mouth fumbles,
softly
dripping  sonnets from the toes,
the face gulps the horrors
swiveling across the pale streets,
i sing a song so full of flat tune now,
in the small clots of blue sky.

and I never stop staring at that sky,
that lump in my small throat,
a wound so uglier now.
There is such an alkaline dance of the naked goddess inside my womb.
I become almost infallible.
with blue moons, in my chest,
it sings a song so perfectly,
with small droplets of water sleep on the floor.

There exist multiple tunes intertwined with shadow
of my despair song.

Sketch in noon

I sit in the open lawn
a lawn full of earth and skeptic memoirs
the scattered Congregation of unskewered mind.
I see a mushroom sprouting here in the garden,
the thick shoots clinging another.
Co-existence must be a plaster?
And then I hear the temple bells,
altogether, the sound similar to my mother’s laughter.
but there are other moments occurring in the noon,
a cry so stuffed with the yellow air,
thick & warm,
moist layers of Earth’s lip.

Other occurings happen
where the housewife takes an oath to fight,
a child who hums the songs of surrealism

There is a hem of nebulous despair lined down my skirt
as if it holds the grief of the entire city,
the tattered brood of paper roses.
I find serenity in the eyelids of pain, too often.
What does it make me?
An artist or a doctor?

Nature, in the noon, spills the seeds of a distant truth
to thy naked eye.

The Emptiness

The emptiness of a man is not like emptiness on the wall,
it is platonic through the creeping sky.
The emptiness that talks to your mind,
where you understand the unparalleled world.
There is something bursting beneath the jawline,
something that produces more than a lonely feeling.
a sparrow reckons my dead poem-
a saddened tale that blooms under the belly,
They call it a dead poet’s nightmare.
A thing so vacant as if it never wished to exist.

The emptiness speaks of its beauty,
the narrow yesterday
The love poems of an old man.
I scream about my lies to the yellow walls,
a cue of slipping satisfaction from there.

What am I left with?
the most tangible noise to hear.
the warm crooked interiors,
the knob- cylinders empty,
t.v remote desiccated,
for noises inside the mind make enough noises.

There are fingers stretching forward like Spring
for help,
these lips, unfurling to revolve a poem about a poetess
so warm,
dead,
warm,
to be told somewhere in the empty walls once again.

The Narration

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.