the body swells
in the anarchy of lunatic afternoon
the mouth fumbles,
dripping sonnets from the toes,
the face gulps the horrors
swiveling across the pale streets,
i sing a song so full of flat tune now,
in the small clots of blue sky.
and I never stop staring at that sky,
that lump in my small throat,
a wound so uglier now.
There is such an alkaline dance of the naked goddess inside my womb.
I become almost infallible.
with blue moons, in my chest,
it sings a song so perfectly,
with small droplets of water sleep on the floor.
There exist multiple tunes intertwined with shadow
of my despair song.
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.
your fingers sweep saline dust
on my collarbones of dirt & dead hopes,
with figaments of knots, sordid closure.
ancient bells marking my face as salinity,
A staircase is kneaded inside my soft nerves,
my soft calves, my soft body.. the memory stinks & stuck
of you, of your black socks i slept in
your scent like vanilla sky,
enamored & ventilated, once
it’s a morbid tale of two now
Ships of lost city
with concrete desoltution
rubbing the corners of my thigh,
my plump breast, my void eyes.
it’s a tale people talk about now.
it’s a rotten sky now.
A mesh of poetry ascends in my scalp of lights
the place punctured by your visits often,
in my nocturnal nights of anxiety and suicides.
You step on to my body, peeling layers
of SCARS\ and you watched POETRY\ C A S C A D I N G
in molten, mountain flush of hours.
I am not dead if that’s what you mean—
There are splinters of time and flower
the raw ageless faces of skin,
goblet eye of evil-
here moon meets sun,
and earth meets my soul
it’s a travesty of you and me
rather than what you did to me.
I have seen the postcards of vintage ink
our lotus bodies sinking like air,
tropical destinations, with kisses side by side
I ate your nails, your fingers, your dirt
defying existence of deads & deads.
Now, my finger bleeds fungus,
crochet of inhuman trepidations.
I still hang you in my mirrors
behind my bed, behind my eyelids.
I still see your insanity
I am silvered and stickered
in the blue’s of despair
hunting my scalp
down to the ankle stain,
For the roads are a summer breeze
tropical, slapping my coarse breast
the humming is repetitive.
like insanity clicking
Viscous walks defy my extinction.
The roars and shouts, scrapping my last
single bit of blood
my last single ounce of sleep.
my last single mouth of chalks and blackboard.
Rubbing my fragile hands over my soiled neck,
I felt a vibration from the crooked radio’s tune
The twirls of flaccid rays and patterns of black and white
always speak the sweet dazzling truth.
My mouth says the violent words as my eyes perch on illusion.
This world makes me sick and sick till my heart spills
collision, evaporation, disappearance.
I am a convex tube of dying lotus,
sinking on the ebb of dark air. I am dark, yet beautiful.
Palpitations of bleeding words, conjure my virgin existence.
I hear your cactus voice, deciphering and churning my own blessings
I am sick today. I am no one today for my poetry even rests today.
Penumbra, walls of construction, destruction
black coherent cathartic squalid eyes
numb crooked vertebrae floating
in the liquid air, my body becomes a coffin.
Enfeeble basket of black roses resides in my cracking eyes.
I take a pause, and visit the old creaking house,
haunted and mahogany drooling
over my burning piquant skin,
I feel a co-existence between
the supernatural and the living
Dents of loose threads of hope
circulate, biting my skin, biting my tongue,
biting my amorphous vapours of sick solitude.
I want to weep today, scarring my acidic eye
the hypocrisy, the swollen balls of abhorrence scar me.
I am a vexatious taboo.
How is sustenance a need?
Even the sky dies at night.
I evaporate, disintegrate, amalgamate
only to be a broken piece of an elongated lie.