A sedative

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I want to quieten my mind
and each day I would count ways to do that.
Popping pills backward / gazing at the starlight
until dawn slaps me all over again.
A memory of death fidgets with my tectonic body.
I become so slow.
slow like degrading with the earth.

I count ways to quiet my mind while writing this poem.
There is a drop of water on my palm which freezes my hand,
like a singular stem of the numb horizon.

Hush, hush, hush.

I see my reflections
dying in the soiled air that slips upon my lips.
Violet and brown.
A colourless dream often.
I want to rest quietly,
with no connections any more

I could stare a small spot on the ceiling
like a moth
trying to endure a lie.
My words are epileptic today
just like me, all wobbly.
I stand here in a sitting position like a lotus,
and my organs defy my breath.
This poem is a bizarre,
try not to comprehend anymore.

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A blue attack

Blue, blue.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.

a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.

Paint it dead.

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Foul- sweet things

a soft satin kiss
it happened before and it happened today,
i lay on the sides of my kitchen sink
thinking the arrival and departure of my husband,
arrival of his velvet mouth that utters a chain of lantern.
he is adorable, like the moon.
he has his own mood, often.

the purgatory of life resides in this cobweb.
things ascend and descend in a ghoulish manner.
a blue-knitted shawl on the cold chest.
things around me pamper me,
this lone time also pampers me,
i walk and create art in the garden,
in am vacant – small, terrace with broken chipped walls,
something happened there maybe.
something suicidal.

a spectral wire of corrosive shade and memory.
a twitch that shakes me.
often i am speechless,
the kind of attack when your fingers
won’t fit in your mouth.
eyes shut and small.
that’s another kind of suicide.

mondays and Tuesdays are my favorites,
i watch my body decaying until Sunday comes,
and i am a piece of supine tied at the block of a tree.
so i am alive,
i cling to the nakedness of moment like a toddler to a mother.
the sky to apathetic rain,
the embalming breeze to the leaves…
something rhetoric and oblivious.

at the end of the day,
i weep, laugh, take pause, clap and sip it all.
my eye behaves in a torrential tobacco sniff.



hear this out

Toast the New Year With Vintage Shots of Ladies Drinking  - ELLE.com

this time,
my ribs are the house of tears of walled up cities, lost.
a sunken pool of total insanity, you might say.
i want to feel antique, like a vintage lampshade burning bright
in the corners of total darkness.
a flower of hope, blooming on my hip, on my lip.

this insanity does all the bizarre things, like a foot inside a mouth,
choking the timeline of flashbacks.
the mewl of sighs, swollen up, gazed up.

i could armor myself, like soft breeze
only at nights now, hallucinations maybe?
the broken air that traps my waist, sits next to me.
it calls me her baby.
a moist conversation.

i often hear whispers of this brain clinging my mouth,
it offers silent prayers too.
i burn with a film of oil in the tongue.
a poisoned needle that disturbs a human.

so, i paint my skin with a nude color of weeds,
to camouflage like a sky in the sky.
words lost in words.
a pattern.

and i wake up the next morning to repeat the same insipid steps. I create art each day.

backwards

Autochromes Lumière stéréoscopiques~Image via Éditions Sur la Banquise.

when you step your foot on the thin film of the sheet,
there is a red lampshade, moist and speaking mute voices.
you take a right turn then and you see a pill of god.
you slurp it backward, at the tip of your tongue,
thinking it shall slip softly down in your stomach,
hushing the coiled noises.

you always step backwards,
at night, like dirt, dust.
a morphed arm,
for you were a burden throughout the day
and you sulked too backwards,
life eating the humans.

prayers, chants
my lips curled, bitten like half-lit moon
speaking up things bizarre, backwards,
into the sky that spreads between my white legs.

i finish reading, walking all in a backward motion.
often i survive in this perfection.
i rub my hands, to circulate a thread of warmth onto my cheeks.
i live like that. Backwards.

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

as i begin to leak

Glamour

A memoir of rusty olives.
hanging like saliva from my forehead.
I am a bizarre lady with a half lit moon.
I have been a lover, a mistress, a daughter.
a tempest swirling from the eye of truth.
Slipping from the gullet of time.

And now, i create a fantasy of hallucinations.
An empty bed with an empty mirror.
to collect the parenthesis of wishes and words.
a violet mauve touch of my small finger.
these hours are sand of jewels.
perfume stuck to my wrist that clicks plum nectar,

i walk alone now,
like hair swinging wildly in the summer breeze,
untamed, amniotic.
i watch myself o this mirror,
it choked me to death.

I might walk alone tomorrow also,’
while going to the market for my pills
shifting from the vents of miniature delights.

a cloying disease.