I think the ache begins at my lower back,
The hurt that I got due to an accident
Or a muscle collapsing.
Things or two it taught me about distraction,
and wholesome love.
The pain shift to my left angular hand.
The palm unfocused, floating in the air
The knee doesn’t stop there,
It bends & cracks
with a peel of medieval ache,
The old vintage era of swollen eyes.
I see it all through the staircase of my dizzy body.
But what about the eyes?
Will they shut the spineless playlist of brown air
or soak in some more tears?
They refuse to talk. To sleep.
Eyes are the biggest culprit any era can produce.
They twitch, itch but won’t eat up your wound.
My anxiety is a shapeshifter,
until i put my fingers through the sheet of night.
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.
What does this speak to you?
my lament and a burning tongue
a swamp so full of oiled waters
I have an eye of the tiger
a frivolous running star
and often I sink in the void of blank noon.
They ask me how do I look
when I smile and giggle.
a silk saree well pleated and insane maybe.
I walk in the blazing red zone now,
I am scrupulous little statue of pale city.
I often smile,
I often glorify.
Check your thermometer now,
am I breathing still?
Is life still circulating around my small feet?
Check again, you.
A life sucks dream of one’s mind
and shove it into the loop of insanity.
My recent poems published on two drops of ink.
Back at my vintage house in India,
i have a memory dying there on the windowsill, a cobweb formation.
a moth sucking life from another.
there, a cataract lie envelopes my pale body.
i see myself each day hushing this array of
blue stack of migraines.
i disavowal what made my pink- poetry once.
and here i am, twitched and degenerated.
the doors creak like this bone dropping
a soundless gape.
anxiety turns a woman into a liquid flower,
Again, i am an organ supporting my another organ, all alone.
my body is abnormally sensitive.
this mind a warehouse. And often, i walk
like a succumbed thing.
and home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
with my arms regenerating at nights,
to sulk my sins. Moist.
Women hear a falling noise. It savours their skin.
the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.
throbbing, cystic window panes.
of mercurical hallowing cry of throat.
a vintage cacophony of soul stiching
another soul, a twig to hold.
a grey crux of skull.
floating from me to you.
and along with, we float.
in the orange burning nights,
of salvation and pain.
Pain. The most inexplicable beauty of humans. Masked and tattered. Orange peel-like surface. As you begin to walk, you feel the blurb of suntanned skins. Lack of juices. ShOrtening of breaths. And there is this pain, gazing your throat. Knuckles break, like the liquids of body evaporating.
Rancid platter of nostalgia. You try to walk away and so you pop pills.
splashing your face with haze- with a spot as black as a pupil.
It has a demure, an oval semblance to shadows. Silk eyed folds. Beneath the nocturnal facets and crevasses, you leak just like that. And you leak until you begin to daydream. Until you are broken and unpleasant to taste. Your juices stink. Your pool of paradise is dried up. Here comes the itch. The itch to bend and smell the distant whiff of loneliness. What does night eat after its done pleasing? Pleasure ends like that.
I feel like i am retiring from the rusty chairs of mine.
this amniotic liquid evaporating slowly.
the blurred lines fading like dusk
the oil, hushing my ink.
and the unnatural baskets of dreams( the hallucinations where the mind is a myth)
i become lush and marked, thin veins drying.
stigma eating my mouth first,
and then my olive hands.
my ear often bleeds clandestine words
emancipating like a ghost,
How do i walk? how do i sleep?
These irregular modals of life sticking me to my lone windowsill.
i am a vase to my empty body now.
holding firmly, like mothers touch.
the roots stoic in the arms of brown bride.
and i hold myself
quiet and dark
dark and slow.
It sits there
with wallowing lips of seal
parched leaf, rotating.
lives born out of it.
swallowing the sudden deaths,
inumerous threads of bruises.
walls break, people die
like petunia’s deluging sigh
cleaved mouths of love.
wreckage & survival
spilling its flow inside,
i splash the black spot,
i smash the black spot.
©Image and words MVS
restlessness spits the wall of death
in hunger & pain.
my body rotates like a disc
surrendered sound of music.
tip toed stigma, a struggle each day
insects sound screeches,
this wooden brain,
or an empty space of lovemaking.
call it anything.
say it names, zig-zag platonic voids
plastic belly button games.
sick voice of head.
call it anything.
a flower holds the world,
its a silhouette speaking of a grave.
a voice is creating a map inside
breaking my legs, my arms
into the eye of nothingness
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
my lids are dropping day by day
i considered rescuing poetry,
the pale fonts, tampered words
and it ate me, slurping mouths,
Vermillion floating mirrors,
stuck to my lips
and cracking the pain
on the floor for you to dance,
it’s a pattern.
it kills and kills
obdurate music of pain.
such coldness slipping,
stopping the clock of gods,
speaking or praying.
this coldness is chilling
with a hint of a lone heart.
i die here.
©Image and words-MVS
My nights are inked
to the soiled sheets of tears
where the callous jaw bleeds inhuman poison,
or a thing pale as your heart
i sew it up to my nostrils, cold
the fragrance, shrieking my inside pits,
its dark, like blank spaces
Everything seems to be a show- off
your hands, your lips
my intelligence to care,
the nights turning them into molten pieces,
i die and become a ball of clay,
stuck to my body,
a parasitic drop of blood.
And there i lie
all dead and black,
with hemisphere dwindling,
and mouths missing
white thick slurp of warped words,
darkness runs in my heart,
like a lighthouse to my dreams.
i have fallen with troops of maniac
inside this cold body
disappearing jawbones of sins
and masters of death
residing inside this globe,
the pool of ataxia,
the pool of coherence
with red pale evenings
Abstruse thumbs of broken lines
making me thaw,
cracking on black grounds,
with lonesome stars,
knitting my naked body
like a work of brilliance,
still, i fall this time...
i fall & it hurts.
Something is missing in the pit of my stomach. I feel the charcoal staircase rupturing, then filling in the cracks of the blank moon. Devastation. Delusion. I see my blue arms extended to the poles of molestation, a sudden resolution of black and white vintage movies. My kitchen sink evaporates somewhere. Devastation.
The monotony of this body screams till my black walls fall, a sunken truth in this concoction of empty bowls and folded curtain stretches. Elasticity. The hands are empty, crooked, decayed.
Oh yes, there is an eclipse appearing on my black braids, swinging swiftly like my lips did once to lick that butter kiss. Appearances and traits are cellophane clinging to my white forehead. The lights appear bound, seized. Stagnate.
I pray and pray to wither the molten frames and fragments. Catharsis. Purification.
The cheek tint once filled the blue sky, the blue water, with sheets of pure cotton. Fidelity loops sinking onto the carvings of my feet. Parachuting in the snow. That was then.
For now, I see the mockery of time sitting onto my sharp laps, like a reservoir or a womb, gazing as I decay and fall and shatter and shatter into ashes.
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