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.:)
I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
often too blatant.
I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,
This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.
Read my latest published work here.
Between the waves and trees
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.
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.