Tara

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.


 

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A slipping poem

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.
But then,
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
rest for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.


Submissions for my collective olive skins here

Effortless

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.


Mute Noises

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,
mute noises,
my eye of pastel sleep,
I expand a blurb of my mind all across this room,
in whispers,
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.

A poem about you

NaPoWriMo #22 ekphrastic poem

And I stood there,
in the aisle of chipped yellow walls
rummaging through my thick skin,
about the last night.

the light of lovemaking,
the night of kisses and cigars,
how soft your body felt,
topaz like sunshine caressing my neck,

long afternoons of summer drinks and clouds tearing away,
something hung from the lampshades of my garden,
a memory, a perspiring flower of nostalgia.
I often walked like planets dancing on the earth,
thinking about you and your scars,
your love,
your shaded memory of vignette touch.
Everything is a dead-end, an endgame.

I always waited for you,
counting your time on my twenty fingers.
Envelopes of sequined eye gazing your arrival,
it happened in winters,
it happened in summers,
it happened again and again.
a chiseled knot of survival.

And now, I am done.
My body sweats like your skin did once,
chipping the bedsheets of nostalgia
Often I eat my own mind full of you,
trying to stick a mannequin inside my pharynx.

No, I do not wither away,
I am not a sunflower dying,
Ephemeral nights talk to me in a decent language,
slipping a thought of voice hidden somewhere.

You do not still evaporate from my orange lit mind,
you burn there, a lamp in a swamp,
feeding onto my naval of thousand skies.
I watch you there each day,
I do not speak.
I do not speak.
I sit and count you melting.

A prayer

NaPoWriMO #20

I pray like a verbose lady,
counting the shards of air,
each night

Five fingers, doused in liquids of magenta lipid
a foreskin hanging loose,
I pray like a cloud now.

Full, and thick smoke
i am colourless.
a colourless eye of maple.
I pray thousand times a day,
to be normal.
to swallow these walls.
&
i do it exceptionally well.

Things that slip

Napowrimo#9

Where I walk, where I sleep Flowers bloom, ivy creeps The turning world, the gift of life Mine

Whirl like topaz,
hear exhaustive voices, all like a mother-daughter relation.
Watch a point of Stagnation. Reverberation. Too much cold.
and carry the footsteps behind,
live, live like a flower on a naked body.

There are no cloying questions of life.
You will fail if you swallow life.
Don’t.
Don’t fidget about the atmosphere.
Observe these crazy annoying things in your mind.
Lillies blooming and dying.

Things as soft as a petunia.
Things are as dark as my mind.
Let them slip, oiled and kneaded
into the stack of insomnia and other wild things.
Do not think.
Conjunction of mind is a beautiful process.
So let it be.

Speed creating a sliced illusion,
you cant’ defy filthy chipped minds and nails.
Let the process of leaking begin.
Watch it once again.
How your body floats, finger evaporates up in the sky.
That glorious sky, now.

Watch it fall again.
Things that make you full.
Rains, flowers, mushrooms
bouncing like peals of laughter of unborn.
hear it… hear it again.
Let things crack in your small aperture.