you sit on my corrosive neck and feel the black void spot,
i have bones made of bone-china and a little neck to proceed.
i stand and look for you in aberrant currents,
i split daylight across your arms.
to know the layers of your skin & words
i perform rituals day after day.
A windswept memory tucked between your lips.
a grey memory folded like velvet curtains.
i imagine you in a surrealistic way.
A song to hum, to ingest the threads of madness.
i think of you in moments of cacophony that stich my ears with a soft noise of you.
a bumblebee of your name comes
and sticks to my comatose body
strewing words of your lips,
porcelain slick drops of rain.
There I am, endlessly counting
the threads of time,
your body like chemicals rushing,
talking tounges, flesh sinking in nature.
something surreal we deliver to autumn,
a painted silhouette of love.
We gulp the harrowing throb of time,
inhaling the movements of our doused body,
in a swamp of emblematic sheets of symmetry.
We become a pattern, a floral one,
this is how i take you,
Afternoon red sun.
Elis has a paper ball texture, crisp and crumpled veins of love. Her nakedness is the march towards the fruits of springs, countless motions of time. Her liquid lips, cryptic to herself. She neatly defies the existence of frailty.
The frailty of summer’s hope and frailty of meadows spring.
The heaviness of swamp and linguistic seizures weighs her down, sinking her hand and arm. Missing parts of reality. A cocoon of dissatisfaction. A body of uncountable heavy eyelids. Elis does not speak of her curves and eyes, she dedicates her body and sacrifices her tongue. Rituals of greys and blacks.
Elis curls up her lips like a slice of burning orange peel. Her breaths, heavy, dissected, summoned like a stone eating her tongue. Her thigh eating her faith.
Elis craves and prays. For solitude to be her only stay.
i can’t mend thing’s perfectly
like a soothsayer in my vagina
asking to rise- a phoenix of morality
but i cant do a thing flawlessly you see-
i have a thing forsaken to blend
with another skin of my body,
cerulean dreams of raisins and chestnut
i am black
i am broken,
pieces jittered in a jigsaw game
so i can’t cook food for you,
neither i can wash sublime clothes,
naked your soul-let it be ah!
my fingers are flaky,
monsoon in one part of the world-
unrest in a soliloquy of dreams,
yes i bleed while sleeping, morose cryptic ways
yes, i am numb,
sour apple jam to lick and throw.
I am all of that,
like a lotus in the salina.
Skin is music
skin is lyrical,
regenerating faces of loss
and i cling to it till
i drop my ashes to rest.
i watch you sleeping in the coldness nights of eve-dropping
with my vapid blue chipped nails, still gasping for breath,
i watch you like a surrealistic, walking above the ocean
to touch the mouths of lost and valleys of lights.
I turn and twitch on the bed of mirrors,
it has parts of your liquid face
gonging, cracking my lips of butter
i still watch you,
from my heavy breasts to my small hands
like a cauldron of wavelengths, skewered apart
still dropping words of a decayed autumn leaf.
this body is lipids and a segment of cosmic lights
deluged in moist concave conversations,
with oneself, with you.
You call me honey, and I begin to melt
like an Orion of mouths and skins of Gods murmuring.
My breaths slip in the ocean, the sky still succumbed
of last night’s naked love
Breaking inside you,
i wish your eyes of chocolate rain
closed, loved, closed, mine.
Harbour of jolting smiles,
fever, broken radio voice.
all is here,
in my black pitch room,
in my crisp tongue.
And i watch you breathing, singing.
This evening is a slender fireplace
burning my wet loss of losing you
a loss is a numb attack until felt
and so i see hums, bells sliding between
out cheese skins,
mellow at the bottom, i am a dream of a lavender,
matchsticks burning curtains of you,
you meltdown from the Alps, and my garden
towards a barefoot blue whisper.
A crescent moon born beneath the sway of pulp thighs
Grapevines, nocturnal in hushed nights
observing our warm apple breaths,
floral segments onto our clothes-
my white skirt and your black pants
I burn in such fields of coherence,
cleaving affection as my second, language-
Oh man, your arms of white clay
waning thunders of a white moon
so soft and musical,
unveiling a lantern of fireflies.
And then I make a sketchbook of you
amidst the pale pink flowers,
your name embossed like a manor of bees.
There under the branches of hardened leaves
between the sordid naphthalene balls of kiss
I found you, like a fallen star.
i am a woman in a box of shackles and needles, forlorn words such like a bun/
I am old now like a violin of death, blood-soaked up till the cigarettes burn. It’s the womanhood kicking my belly again and again. Spewing moments of despair and solidarity.
I am alms and chains. Coagulation of breaths sinking and splitting, like seeds of walnut..if any.
A stark of pain, there is a pathway in my dining hall going dark in the morning, you should know. Things are occurring inside, with osmosis and hallucinations. Mad is this world if you call me that.
mad is you to break my knee, that night..concretes of lips and mascara.
I am as Old as an Oak, varicose tunnels flipping my body of sparks. I am electrocuted again and again and again. I still not budge and smudge. I am dying perhaps, these cold distilled evening nights hollows bleak
lips cracked..winter talks.
Things return like autumn,
with leaves, shades and colours
as your mountain essence
stick to my collar-bone,
in the moments
of nights, haze, dawn.
One by one,
I circle around
and soaked in your fingers
and memories of the return,
this mahogany burns,
it burns as a bay leaf
in segments and silvery parts
I fall into parts,
your demure pasture of lightnings,
your mushy belly button
your mouth of Jasmine
We made love
to grow old together
to be a single fallen star,
we made love for your return
where I am picked and loved,
like a frozen pea,
in your hand.
And, I wait here
for your return
all like a wool,
Fixation to occur.
i am made of paper lines,
bisecting and colliding like a scavenger
Pieces of fire fill my mouth,
my mouth of caves and thunder.
unabashedly walking like circles of planes,
fixed dots often scamper my periphery,
holding the deluge of love
holding a river of memories.
Everything swallows itself-
time / people / deaths / despair
mahogany rusty table sinks
and bees flutter like irreplaceable.
My mind delivers sketches of horror
a ghost-like face
hopping city by city
man by man,
melting into a paradox
and harvesting a dillema.
A chain of imprints.