Snippets from my life

eggshells, 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.

windows and mirrors

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,

Soaked lips

these lips utter a pause of lipids time after after like a powdery cough. they bloom and shatter with details, wisdom of lush lights a fluid, a shade, a soft sunset resting on my backbone Each petal a dandelion of rays, imperative words upwards and sidewards, spitting veins dipped in blue ink blue sky…a blue

splinters

  it’s that time of the month when the earth blooms like a bride, and a thumb of life splinters. fragments of the earth, the moon like a mahogany autumn kiss, divides my body into two beautiful halves. I am a blossom now, a dew on the foreheads of Gods. Those gods who created a

the rise and fall

i guess, at times i walk on the waters, the ebb, a reminder of my narrow chin. i have a thing for kissing life. and i do it precisely well. i kiss and drink the sweetness, the stars and the sound of the bells. i metamorph into a syllabus of a veritable smirk. dreams hold

A stich of memory

i am white & floaty like clouds. thick sheets of molasses. Old lavender strings hanging on my chest. i am a convex memory of wax. flashback of old days speak to me, like vintage numbers, vintage photos, vintage walls & laughters. i have a thing with people. i mark and eat them along with the

when i die-

you will find ink blurb, parched words, acoustic in air, a hot burning potpourri and my ink romancing with words. this is what i will leave when i die- a torn cloth, stinking souvenirs, words like thick and sick stick to my tongue, a concave road of anxiety on my wrists. for i had no

Time&You

I was the one with bruises and stones in my mirror-eyed reflection a reflection of you, mother the cacophony of time and hours floating inside your eyes, the heaviness of pebbles and rituals. Your arm mocked your cerulean breast, with its swollen stigma of memoirs and some pictures, vintage. I combed your concave mouths of

The truth of this Skin

This Skin is transparent, like a stitch to spew, to flatter the moments of despair. The bruises occur, with an open mouth an empty sheet of braided dreams this skin claps and claps with a bowl of spewing lotus, and a hollow dripping hocus-pocus Peppermint& honey drops with earbuds sagging, this skin melts, in the

Madhouse- body

Your belligerent electric eyes of swamps and tea bags like vapours & death picking my hair strands to dissect me further, oh you, mouth of monster & shadow of half-naked moon. i lie on my bed & count my reverse motionless screams, words, screams here in this room of death & poetry. chapters of skin