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.
i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum
i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.
thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.
The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.
and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?
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.
i know the formations
when i had your face
close to my lips.
voids went flickering
with aerospace dissolved
in the hymns of my carrot eyes
i tore up the blatant sky
that rummage your body
and your smell,
for i sleep with my eyes
dipped in your presence.
Soft balls of cotton inside
thundering my long legs
all about your hair-locks
all about your language of love.
I become vintage inside
your dewy arms and moles.
Your words, temple bells.
The whiteness of a damp canvas
augments as my pupil cries
for a slick kiss to form knots.
Knots of bond. Memoirs.