Thought factory

我爱你 - i don't own any of these pictures!! #aléatoire # Aléatoire # amreading # books # wattpad

I sit here. In the park full of overly grown people.
I see a black sky, lights flickering halfway.
A subtle ripple of a thought gushing in the man’s eye,
standing next to me
I emboss his voice to the sky, somehow.
A bush full of flowers,
sweet nectar from the eyelids
submerging my feet in the lush.

I walk and stay close to this creeper,
sticking to my bosom.
I adore the soft lust it whispers to the ear.
in the winter night,
where do they all go?
here, amidst the wild eyes,
amidst the lilies here speaking a foreign language,
a child’s laughter disappears somewhere.

The trees have begun to dream again,
oscillating between the heaven and the hell,
and in this darkness, I become wild and small.
Like a wildflower on the pathway.

A red dimness hovering my hand,
cold cough of the night
spreading like a red bright flower across the faces.
Where will humans go, now?
A temple, a church, a mosque?
Or will they sleep
with an enormous restlessness.

The flight

Yeh Seedhi Sadhi Chori Sharabi Ho Gayi | via Tumblr

Where does it go?
Your unspoken word of lust,
an ensemble of parched dancing words,
Do you let them run?
Or do you absorb the guilt, like a sponge?

Harvest the other sides of pixie lawn now,
Run… run along the shores
embossing a pain onto the sand.

Among the stars is a paper flower blooming,
with a binomial tongue to speak.
The star and the earth do not suffice your sparkle.
Pelican featured sunset glows.

Slurp and slurp.
The agony hides behind the crevices of teeth.
Churn your fear like a betel leaf,
Take a flight,
Like the bunch of sun-kissed memories.

Leila

Wild Women Wednesday: Josie Washburn cowgirlmagazine.com
And there sits Leila,
a soft concave figure of running temperature.
Her mannequin star-shaped bosom,
a hello she says.

Empty walls,
barren ceilings around,
Her round swirling eyes,
with a distant look
She pinches her knuckle.
She wakes up from a faint dream,
There. There. Where the poem falls in the large solar system.

Leila is a slice of time,
chewing the mint-flavored bubblegum,
like the body of the sea,
running through the empty roads,
floating among the pastel curtains.

And there she sits for a moment.
To gasp and exhilarate.
A wanderer of beautiful things.
like that she escapes into the morality of joy.
Twirling. Twirling. This body a stench of buzzing petals.


My poetry published in Selcouth Station. Read here
https://www.selcouthstation.com/single-post/2019/10/13/Devika-Mathur-Goddess

An update

Hey everyone!

So, I have been missing from WordPress from like an eternity due to certain reasons. I havent read anything here. I have missed reading and posting my poems both. I am just dropping a Hi here to know how things have been with you guys. I hope everything is going well with everyone.

Will be posting some poems soon.

olive skins accepting submissions- https://oliveskins.com/

Meanwhile, you can read my poems on my insta handle @myvaliantsoul.

Goddess

Featured Image -- 3750

i am the woman
the goddess of springs and words.

watch me rise.,
through threads of raisin

like a vintage blob of sun,
a phoenix from ashes.

My mouth is covered with cellophane
of rust skins,

it knows how to unwrap of sins,
a murderous night,

Watch this body of cold moon,
a silent night made of quiet mountains.

Observe and stay with me,
I throttle along with the rivers,

I provide and love,
like a goddess of all time.

Raindrops

 

there is absolutely an archaic music ruffling in my ear,
I call it home.
pitter-patter raindrops,
wrapping a ceremony around my waist.

There is belongingness to this body,
with nature being receptive of my patterns.
A short, polka dot marrying the tablecloth.
the small details that you often ignore.
And I surrender my eyes, amongst the worldly chaos.
The chopping of walnuts, the breaking of my patient knuckles,
as if waiting desperately for something abnormal to occur.

Raindrops/ a plural form of tears.
or a. singular verb. to soothe the reaction of popping pills.
I rest my fingertips,
whirling blue pain,
as heavy a s a cotton ball
on the drops of this waterfall.

Submit your poems now.

As you all know, I recently started an online lit mag Olive skins exclusively for abstract poetry and art and I would really appreciate if you all check it out and and submit your work. The details can be checked out here.

So what are you waiting for? Let’s hear your pain, sorrow, art anything surreal right away!

Cheers.