A day like this

Oh! Audrey
Another day has gone.
I sit and pray like a maniac,
with a white smile, you can count on.
I prepare breakfast and prepare a story to tell.
I prepare so many wild things often.
Bricks on bricks, and soft wool of tales.
You left like a reptile in a hibernation.
with floors slipping beneath my china body.
i pray and pray. That’s what i know the best.

I once prayed during my abortion,
beating the sweats and my blood.
my blood was thick as a waxed cloud.
Oh, how i wish you stayed!

What is that flows and flows behind my ears?
A life. A full stop. An endless conversation with life.
Over the years I have developed a harpoon of olive skins.
Skins that are cleaved too.
They haunt me in moments of despair.
They haunt me in these bright shiny days.

And here I am sitting, sunbathed, moth running on this fungus swiveled hands.
Eating and flapping my heavy bosom.
It speaks beautiful anatomy to me.
Oh yes, it does create a map on my toes,
a map on my mind.
Here I traverse, sideways like a waterfall. A soft and a quiet one.
I am not in a sad mood today!
Autumn is my favorite season.
It speaks only the truth, the brown fallen truth.
And I swallow it like a sincere patient, popping a pill to be alright.

 

#NAPOWRIMO-2

A slip

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i have written in my belly,
a thing for you,
your name that clamours this wall.
i have it preserved into my bones,
these skeletons of dark bowl.
ah! your voice, eccentric, atoms of atoms.
you blink, and i am basket of sunsets.

this life is a point of conversation.
with you, i skip this life.
a word that flutters still, like a pill.
you,
my darling create a tremor,
with spaces white as snowflakes.
i slip into you, a swirl of art.

cravings/ THAT KILLS

 

Jacques-Henri Lartigue, Renee Perle, 1930-1931

There is the feeling of my wrists slipping oiled lights through my swollen thumb. Hay through pictures of past. A hum of lights and dust.
I turn through the thick air, a vacuum of period spaces. But I am more than this.
more than the grasshopper that sits and eats twig nonchalantly.
washed, wasted, my iris of dreams.
i could sit on the summer grass, the winter sun,
marking the gullets of the path.
something that wants me.

 i remember my small fingers,
enclosed like a dainty lotus
afraid of lights,
for that light killed many people.
it is the thread of old vintage sheet i eat.
i eat memories.
i eat cities.
i eat streets.

All the lonely people- an anthology

the-perceptions-of-life

the way i close my eyes is a seduction.
a clementine red prayer to my body,
with dark clouds. a sleepless child humming.
a black spot spinning in the sky, apparitions of liquid monotony.
it churns the limbs inside
with a mouth of lust.

there is a dark room of closed fists,
fists that shimmer red pain. Inside my mind of a blank page.
a white pure kiss hanging,
like a loop foreheads murmuring a word.

a seizure. a dream. I close my eyes, I see myself floating
alone in the lanes of words, a reverie of mists.
Flowers bloom inside my mouth. Knuckles of painted red nostrils.

This land is pious for I am unknown to myself.
i sneeze like a ghost
with my hands saying my uncanny dreams.
a concoction of love and death.
it’s here, speeding like a wasp.
we walk like ghosts,
sip and drink,
the arching thunders of time,
slipping softly.
hush and be quiet now. Be your own butterfly.


The truth of this Skin

This Skin is transparent, like a stitch to spew,
 to flatter the moments of despair.
 The bruises occur,
 with an open mouth
 an empty sheet of braided dreams
 this skin claps and claps
 with a bowl of spewing lotus,
 and a hollow dripping hocus-pocus

Peppermint& honey drops
 with earbuds sagging,
 this skin melts,
 in the oceanic mouth of yours.
 Or this skin divides
 in my repetitive sins and sins.

I gasp and pray
 till my body collapse
 with a dying hint of clove,
 wafting breeze of paddy fields
 this skin smiles.
 Like polaroids humming
 in the crux of
 my immune skin.

INSTAGRAM- MY VALIANT SOUL

©MVS- NaPoWriMo#16

The Final Exit

The day I shed my skin,
what will it be named and scored
The table of mahogany, the scent of yellow stained old papers
the blanket now white would be turned crisp golden
Mosaic moments Transparent fragrance Cold evenings

With time as a poking device on my cheekbones
I would shed some pieces of satiation, hunger
on the nape of my thin neck,
Screams, lipid screams and tongues of unborn voices.

Knives as powerful as life,
will slap me with cuts and honesty
Stating the end of pavements, the end of seashore walks
Strangulating noises will go missing in my head,
That writer’s block will be missed as colossal as a thunder.
dropping sounds of Sonnets. Wheels of bleeding pale ink gushing my veins.

Thirst of a parched desert, Oval eyes seeping thrush blue waters.

I will be ashes and the rest will be an Ode
With sagging back, my lips will shout “POETRY”
Emulating peachy air of life- death
I will be a memoir and a tribute
I will be someone or something, in circles and loops.
The day I shed my skin.


©MVS

Time and again

My lips porcelain and full of moments
and desires, with a beetle evolving inside.
Curious, my arms extend, elongated like a shadow.
Dripping ink and curls,
eyes stained, pink and blue
my curves smile, and Occults occur.
My scratches roar, screams, and a star goes missing.

A dialectic skin grows each day,
with ligaments rupturing
with corals fading, a myth that sits on my lap.
The time eats our pain
and slaps our foot,
to mock the red boxes,
with the wildness awake
to kill a mockingbird.
time and again.

©Image and words MVS

Memories

image- self

The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

The Cleansing Ritual

 

Gertrude Hoffman by Frank Bangs, 1917.
Pinterest

 

A process that disintegrates my coral stomach system,

With an arrow of titanium and spits of black

I prefer cleaning your insane, archaic touch that made me dark

The splashes of oval bowls of coughs and stigma

That stick to my tongue, my very pink tongue

Coughs and coughs till you understand this cleansing

And the thought process merges with your berserk piquant

Barbaric iris of the eye

Oh, you plunged the cactus and the roses all at once

Into my fingernails, into my saliva

I spit and spit and spit

This cleansing is a seduction of rituals

It takes time and then the skin is immaculate and cellophane clear

I take iterative baths on Mondays and Sundays

Hot water gargles cleanses my gums and tongue once more

For you clicked mouths to my book of statues and clock bell

I rub my painted matt nails,

I rub my Skull,

I rub this proliferating blood vessel dipped in your memoir

Rub, rub, rub

Ah, eh,

I  am a puddle now,

A flush of an Orchid tint.

Tilting in my own dirt

Defending my own soaked raisin body.

Twines and wires of your smooth photos

still can be traced inside my jigsaw heartbeats

one by one, somewhere.

®MVS


 

That Silence

I am walking on my own laced path

with frills and throbbing water

Discern the reality, Observe.

Titanium clocks strike the moment of truth

I am as soft as the morning baked bread,

Eyes peeping into your glass carved twists,

Sonder. Hallucination. Expectation. Ashes.

Death shall come eventually,

choking your doors and my windows

What does human fight for, if not humanity?

Coffins: decorated and flowered

I speak veracious lights of thorns,

Concave, convex

Puddle. Soil. Palpitations.

                                                         Silence.

© My Valiant Soul


 

Shades of emotion-the black-the red-the grey

Image result for red and black

The Black

Hoops of the anxious soul are hanging in the most voracious way.I hear thunder, rustling silence.This is my first phase, anger.

The intimidating red eyes. The eyes of satan, they say. The faded shades of grey, charcoal, as my wrist remain crossed.

I put my wrist on top of my forehead.The sagging forehead.

The conundrum geography exists right here, sharply ecstatic.

Hot wax, profound depth, a lingering cold wave.

A dark, gruesome heart.

A ghost- like canopy of thoughts.

The Red.

This is a melancholic phase.

A lugubrious red sorrow shining on my pinky finger, the tales of the darkly skinned elbow.

the bends on my skin, my crooked skin.

the way sky forms uneven patterns,

leaving us bewildered of the richness, the great creations.

All I see is complexities, the bars of a collision, gateway of numbness.

A stoppage.

The vague dreams.

Now the heart is crooked.

The Grey.

A wave of cornered soul resists like the last droplets of rain.

Tiring yellow pages, not desiring to be read further.

Monotonous paths, monotonous tones, monotonous human.

I kiss my pain in a breezing way, hugging my own doleful pits.

the screams forms chains of comfort, the sky is indicating a pattern,

the crookedness is recovering into a deeper hole

name it comfort?Name it a bliss. Oh!Don’t name it.

As it’s still  a vivid hole, murky,

dark, distilled in my conscious, collided with my mindset,

it’s grey here, my palm is feverish

my eyelids are the coherence of deeper shades of grey

this is the phase,

this is the ultimate revival, mystical.



 

The way it is.

 

Image result for hurt paintings
image credits- Pinterest

A box of hidden muse resides in my heart. I try to hear the amorphous murmur the times I am cold in my warm blanket. The smoke and ashes brew a pool of blurry images, my past tales that plunge deep into my veins, unable I am to move. Numb my thighs remain, numb my eyes remain.

My room walls have gone pale, shooting bullets in my mouth, it hurts.

The conundrum scissors mock my caricature, forming turbulence on my ceilings, in my ceilings. Nothing erupts out but the insipid cold droplets of heartaches, drop by drop it falls on my fingernails, burning like ice, cold as ice, that is how numb I float in the horizon of duplex walls.

Like my chin resting on that eccentric needle, swords fighting producing my legs and arms, now they remain silent and here is the time, when the incumbent work is at a halt.

So I wither and wither.

 



 

Time is Me

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Needles in my mouth, poking the sustenance of time
with a swab of cotton dipped in grey pause
A pause from the rigorous living and the dead,
beyond the veil, a harmony exists, a topology of Stardust
covering my naked breast.
A musical building devouring me with lust
sprinkling some on the nape of my neck,
Beyond this, precision exists forming clouds,
resembling my black locks elongating the path,
to travel the unfathomable soil,
the colour is not Auburn, it burns
it burns on my arms, it burns on my wet tongue,
twisting in forward steps,
each moment time moves, I stay here to glean the patterns,
to play hide and seek with the mirage, a shadow.
I draw curtains, performing segments to watch
the porcelain body of time’s shadow,
drawing paintings on the cerulean sky and I see,
a fragile moment of reflection
swallowing the colossal truth of me
Time is Me.



 

Untraceable

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The tropical mind you loved,

the charm of my heart you carried

shall be in the oblivion sky someday,

lost like scattered clouds,

The naivety of my soul,

the pureness of my childlike laughter

shall be hidden in the dark musty rocks,

so deep and exceptional;

that it will become untraceable

to find the original carvings

of my caricature.



 

Dark-deep-cage.

I hear screech in my abdominal muscle

Lurking deep in my vanity of thoughts

My pillow talks the tales of absorbed tears

The white cover unravelling the bites, the thorns of forlorn chants

The crooked walls of my space shall direct the cave in my eyes

Deep, dark, lost all at once

My tongue feels the pinch as wound inflicted on a tree

I know the cuts, mincing of cherry tomato

Plucking of leaves, trimming the bush

Removing filth, shaking dust

Piling the dead flowers

Even if they wish to dip into the brutality of a numb cracked flooring of a dead house.

And I lie there, tongue-tied,

Stroking arrows of horror, the array of thunderbolts uptight on my white thighs

Watching it turn blue, darker blue and absurdly

All black.