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
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.
these lips utter a pause of lipids
time after after
like a powdery cough.
they bloom and shatter
wisdom of lush lights
a fluid, a shade,
a soft sunset resting on my backbone
Each petal a dandelion of rays,
upwards and sidewards,
spitting veins dipped in blue ink
blue sky...a blue world.
Porcelain drops of dew
Like lust to wax
A moments of spurring thoughts
Defying existence, one by one.
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 dimension of soil inside me.
Blueberries that speaks a truth about springs.
I give births, i take births
a circle of life.
effeminate blisters chiselled onto my hip.
I do not take rest like the sun, the moon.
i am a supernatural flower of crumpled anxiety.
So, I gather and gather, sunbeams, lilies
a soft thorn, honey, raindrops.
as much as i can,
to slip it all into my jaws,running
through the streams of loneliness of this fish-shaped eye.
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 my mouth and put me back to sleep until i am awake like colours,
vibrant and throbbing a dark spot.
at times, i become seasons,
my body, a criss-cross of lanterns.
it’s small and beautiful.
And that’s how i inhale smoke,
my voice tore away like sunsets falling into the rivers.
streams of gushing ripples on my cheeks.
there was a time once,
when poetry was all Mediterranean Sea to me,
with potholes and hammers,
squirming noises of silence.
The semesters of trimmed life makes me a moon,
a person in illusion,
a mirage rising inside the languid skin.
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 walls & laughters.
i have a thing with people.
i mark and eat them along with the spaces.
completely. Bones. ashes. all in me,
as i create my nausea myself
dripping down my red lips.
i create and dissolve.
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 people in my pockets,
i had no eye contact,my conversations with stars
made me fall in love with the moon,
and its dark now, nocturnal love.
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 dripping forlorn fractures,
like a staircase bleeding
or a topology reversed and processed.
I am a soft song in your black-knitted bun
a piece of your chipped nail,
a sunflower, kissed and harassed
inside your turbulent head.
A cauldron, and a day full of nights
hid beneath your muffled chin,
a mole hanging beneath your shouts and dim- dreams.
Mother, you are a pool of madness
and a point blank.
Obscure, shadowy your tongue knits tears
and a sweet thread of touch, impeccable.
Sometimes, I glint in your orange censure
a pattern of love and you,
Your body is a dream.
and I fall in your loops of laps.
the uncontrollable seizures,
the uncontrollable laughters,
Scarlet red wires.
it’s all you, it’s all you.
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 oceanic mouth of yours.
Or this skin divides
in my repetitive sins and sins.
I gasp and pray
till my body collapse
with a dying hint of clove,
wafting breeze of paddy fields
this skin smiles.
Like polaroids humming
in the crux of
my immune skin.
INSTAGRAM- MY VALIANT SOUL
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 peeling, numb iris,
transparent lips of missing skies
i forlorn my ankles
of you and me.
and shiver the scoundrel body.
for this body is a madhouse.
like a concave arm of wax
dripping insanity, clocks
bells and words crooked-pungent.