Time&You

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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.

®MVS

NaPoWriMo#15


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 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

©MVS- NaPoWriMo#16

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 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.

©MVS-words

#NaPoWriMo-20


nights that talk of you

A mesh of poetry ascends in my scalp of lights
the place punctured by your visits often,
in my nocturnal nights of anxiety and suicides.
You step on to my body, peeling layers
of SCARS\ and you watched POETRY\
C A S C A D I N G
in molten, mountain flush of hours.

I am not dead if that’s what you mean—
There are splinters of time and flower
the raw ageless faces of skin,
goblet eye of evil-
here moon meets sun,
and earth meets my soul
it’s a travesty of you and me
rather than what you did to me.

I have seen the postcards of vintage ink
our lotus bodies sinking like air,
tropical destinations, with kisses side by side
I ate your nails, your fingers, your dirt
defying existence of deads & deads.
Now, my finger bleeds fungus,
crochet of inhuman trepidations.
I still hang you in my mirrors
behind my bed, behind my eyelids.
I still see your insanity

C A S C A D I N G

©MVS – NAPOWRIMO#19


A Poet’s Sanity

Tumblr site. This person has collected some really beautiful, old photos. This one is not the best example---but it came up as the only pinnable image.
Pinterest

Do not cross your doubts in my face of trees
Humongous rocks piling and shattering altogether
I am a cloak of shadow, hiding and humming chants
to release my sanity, blue waters of Mediterranean hunger
Clap my soul, and find the twinnings of pieces of glass
Fixated on the roots of my birthplace, insanity clamours.

Reds and Blacks
beneath
the sheets of night,
Liquor and it’s all forms
enticing and questioning
I knock my mind, to check the sanity
and words perch like a thick rope
entangling and pressing my blood,
knots and knots and knots
I check for my sanity now each day
for people melt into my mind, askew drawings
and then question my sanity.


©MVS

A Wall of Separation

Street Style Through History - Street Style of the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s

Understand this.

That I am afraid of the sunshine that sticks to my forehead often

ringing darkness as its ghost, or the beam of the heavy eyelid

The mannequins of transparent aches I have

Throttle the rim of my soft neck, and my skin sinks

in the reds and blues of waterfall reverse.

My fingers might chip and my dress might slip

Vertically in the horizons of your wide eye

Understand this.

The spots under the cleft of my chin are misty scars if you see

Defeated. Mended. Hands of the clock.

Times of quietness sticks to my mouth always, seeking a surreal cryptic language

Understand this.

I eat this paw of time, drinking the remains of memories

and then spawl, scorch, make a night- shift.

I conjure your breaths like papers of old Poetry onto the

cracks of my lips, my jawline to seize you in this verse

Understand this.

I am paranoid, choking on pills and pills and some more pills

I am an overrated drug of numbness and quietness,

biting the hollows of my palm.

Oh dear, Understand this.

©MVS


 

 

The Ghost is back

Apprehensions sink in the dark cloudy layers

like the kohl of my waterline, the kohl of my heart

I am a clown or that saint of the temple, for people misjudge me

With deposition of tears, I shall settle too

in the obnoxious satin walls of turbulent words

Something swells up on my neck, triangles and diversion.

Trepidation. Trepidation.

The wax of candles is stuck to my mind,

dripping anger or illusion

the folds of my bedsheet recall my tear

perfectly imbued with the corrosive words, the abuses.

I decay again.