First of all, I would like to extend my gratitude to all my genuine followers who have supported my work in the best possible way over the years and so now I am thrilled to announce that my dear friend Kristiana and I are soon going to start our own collective OLIVE SKINS which is scheduled for June end. This collective will be a collection of all the brave voices out there which often go unheard by others. The aim is to take submissions about mental health, pain, abstract poems, and fiction.
Ink your beautiful words, surreal poetry, prose and fiction through our email. We want raw poetry, no same old cliched romance poetry, if you want to be romantic, show us that in your fierce style! The collective shall be themed base.
Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.
- Send your work in a word file only.
- If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.
Poetry, Prose editor- Devika Mathur
Fiction editor- Kristiana Reed
Submit poetry, prose at firstname.lastname@example.org (send up to 3 pieces)
Send all the short creative/non-creative fiction at email@example.com
- Send your work along with a short bio.
- Deadline- 30th June
- Currently, we shall not pay our contributors but will do our best to promote your work!
- Submissions will be open throughout the month of June.
- The theme for our first issue – “Loss.”
So let’s get this started and start sending your submissions soon!
Coconut water. A vintage period film.
Clouds that speak a simple language.
A symphony sitting behind my silhouette,
a whimper of art.
Circles of red tensions,
swinging to swing my hair hard.
A lipstick so dark,
my hands suffice the pain…
and the parched lips, bodies producing chemicals.
Fever in ropes of summer evenings.
You know how to feel it.
To drink it like a lemonade, sour/ therapeutic.
My life for you.
it begins as a full stop,
ends with a diagram of loss and repair.
My latest work published on Piker Press
This room empty,
still folds a language of dots & moisture
holding a voice inside, holding a crescent of love inside.
It has triangular edges, sulking the memories inside.
A bohemian palm doused in laughter.
I linger here and there,
near the corner pale yellow table,
above the square corner of files, soiled poetry.
This room, a woman who is pregnant with all seasons.
Slipping through the comatose screams,
ink spilled on the salmon rug,
A sallow-skinned tear somewhere lost.
a shark shifting in the space.
An array of strange emotions exists on this bedsheet,
my eye of pastel sleep,
I expand a blurb of my mind all across this room,
noises as an arc,
the room is bleached now,
the stains like a parchment.
Things sit like a memory in our body of verbose light,
peeled, light as a foam.
A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.
Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.
Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.
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.
Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.
This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.
Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.
Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.
this moon does to me what spring does to me.
the serendipity of lost lovers,
aching inside a tubewell of noises.
numb eyes, pink lips.
a lover’s greet.
beneath the shadow of the piroutte moon,
something surreal occurs,
a mother runs, runs like a fever.
a wife declutters her soul.
a tongue becomes colorless.
and a circle of hiccups surrounds this moon,
a silk bathrobe, caressing against the collarbone.
it happens like dyslexia,
a galvanizing moment perhaps.
people swirl here as if they do not care.