we slumber through days
of moist observations
of things unspoken of.
An organ. A transparency..
there are things beyond our two nutty eye
to cling a mouth full of love,
that cascade through my fragile shoulders
through my heavy white bosom
speaks of you
speaks of sin
speaks of white emptiness
raindrops sweet and soft
unravels a story of mother’s womb.
so much beyond and so much less.
What do I ask for now?
peace or lust from you?
A landscape. A delusion.
I write this to pleat my unevenness
to fool you into believing
about our eloping mad love.
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Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
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And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.
These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,
I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.
My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.
It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
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There isn’t a sight that does not make me think of you
of your auburn burning skin in the heat-
a poem so soft on your lips,
it almost is center of all light
an inflammable kiss
with fumes coalescing into fumes of rainbows
The body rises from something so chalky beneath
an enormous restlessness
traversing nights and days
I wish to remember days like these
beneath my frolic skirt
above my trembling belly
I wish to swallow your blank stare
your stare that revolves like a tangerine sky
with leftover peels of my summer orange.
I wish to remember dry afternoons
with a song inserted in my mouth
a bee that rotates like a tulip
between our fingers entwined.
Like all things of love and soft music.
Of lust I must speak to you.
This body glows like a river
only too thin to bend over you.
Acknowledge the minuteness spread onto my face
across the loose limbs that floats in the air.
Of beauty –
I come to you,
spreading a knob of orange garden
where the time collapse and stops for a moment.
This moment captures us,
to bind us for a sparkle of glory
Of Tongues and tongues
I dream of point of indulgence
A point that emerges from my bottom to your top-
Plants in the cold rain
like diluted streams of romance
You row in the nectar of my oozing moonflowers
Atop my bosom you sit like a wax
spreading an ensemble of winter dreams and summer breeze.
You do not stop there.
I announce carnivals in my womb.
It does not stop. It glows further.
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The women of my time spend too much time thinking,
thinking about the leftover foods
the leftover oil, cucumbers and what not
The women of my time speak a vacant language
a kind of verbiage which makes you stutter
they have a lost glory eyesight
they wish to see things yet falls on a flat surface.
The women of my time are petite and so full.
Full of things that break a human heart,
a cupboard full of memories disguised as polaroids,
fancy teacups clinging the sounds of romance
Arteries of lust flowing
lust for things beyond your skin.
They do not tuck in emotions in their garments.
Hot spaced cheeks splashing words of mahogany
the hem of skirts always full of raisins and butter.
The women of my time eat wounds like spices
more precious than the silver gems
all shades of the sunset, transformation of a child, maybe.
watching her swath their eyes becomes terrible often
terrible as watching a melting moon.
Women of my time prepare a soft warm water bath for themselves
to eat the sins,
to eat something beyond the plastic walls,
they do shiver
yet they do not pause here.
The women of my time are goddesses: a figurative speech about liberation.
They sit and watch the open sky as if they have the light in their puerile palm.
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this is to my property,
to my poetry
that sinks beneath the cave of obsolete synonyms
a blob of blur pain,
a vasectomy to the skin of dreams.
There are things still left to comprehend for me,
like the voices of women,
in the kitchen
in the lawns of hilly areas,
a tree that speaks of death is already a dream.
i pace it, sniffing
in a thick gray- death soup
A space for a thing I am given
i have memories growing like a weed on my knuckles,
a stale one.
a desiccated one.
but memories can make you think like a hurricane,
a dead star already?
a hospital that collects the voices of pain
in a bowl of mercury dipped cry
and the men,
looking upon the rim of thin cloud
a transparent powder of dream
there is absolutely nothing there.
a sound that makes you believe in God is actually time!
priceless and quiet
they melt and sag,
they are told
Do not Touch..
It’s a smell of Death.
Rub and sniff it.
I chop a slice of moon
of an excellent shard from a mirror,
I take a dip in a splintering winter well,
the well of charm & despair,
the evening air does the rest of the job
the apricots stitched onto my lips
my lips forbid to tell your secrets
there is nothing inside the gateway to chivalry,
a half-eaten fruit
a half-read poetry
a half- kissed muse
There it is
I can feel it freely
a gallop of a hysteric wave,
a sunrise, so distant
you need the recipe?
see my knuckles, the hard egg shaled nails,
a fever running through my belly,
they all bow to my cheekbones,
my cheeks ingest your lies too.
How about it?
Will it be a part of the regime too?
and a salt-glazed cup
of electric moon
it didn’t take long,
to be like this.
i wept also.
I wept and wept
till my skin floated in the air so pristine,
and here you have my secrets
for what makes me glow
like mountains, valleys
You never noticed, never, fool!
An old saying I recite,
mapping the distance of my chest to my thighs,
sipping hot tea,
the typical Indian aroma,
the distinctive sniff which makes your crawl your mind,
to rummage through the orange teal box of old photographs,
the box of stoic flushed postcards.
It happens in a minute.
A sky so distant and full of grays.
The mountains from the Space.
Dry leaves of autumn twirling like homes of the Goddess.
the elements are reconciled,
I see as I am the one producing it.
I speak of the stars, running through my epileptic mind.
I do not joke about it, about the elements anymore.
the elements like soil: the river so mighty…and the elements like my limbs
my nails, my earlobes.
i wait for another day.
Another day another moon
another poetic calendar
to turn a page of the horizon
and i sit exactly on the spot of acidic floor
next to my living :
I who wait for herself
to self loathe
to escape into the unprecedented days of summer
out of all the injuries, now
but more brilliant and more eclectic.
Quietly, winter sets in
like a bride so pure,
a porcelain teapot full of warmth,
a dandelion brushing against the skin.
The kitchen lights shine on my bare skin,
producing a glimmer of my mind.
The grass is cut short. Precise and anorexic.
The air is not the same anymore.
Bulbs of sophisticated figments produce jasmine in cold.
There is no other way for us to gulp a wound here,
the pain may be stuck like a pendulum inside.
Winter germinates other chills in mind, often
into me, an evening of inked breath.
The fission of music
getting stuck to my earlobes,
all shapeshifting instabilities of life.
of ordinary life, it is.
Ankle length Winter- skirts swaying across the room
everything at once.
P.S – Sorry for my disappearance also I am currently not at all in a writing sphere, exactly. Please let me know what did you all feel reading this one.:)