Cold talks

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I have seen women in a room
chilled as the mountain,
drowning in a ravenous shelter of heartache.
A feverish leg that jolts in summer.
Women breathe sand and exhale boken poetry.
Women in my town, dessicated in fumes of black clouds,
they do not speak about the evil talks now.
What is it that revolving between their cleavage?
White as their scarred skin,
summer rains blooming between thin eyelashes.
A star slips on their neck, nonchalantly
and they shove it back in their dreams.
a lullaby is eaten and forgotten, again & again.


P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins

Tara

Tara remembers her doings. The pale kitchen sink speaking of chipped dreams, tectonic thighs of fidgeting swamp. Her lipstick is all nude today. Nude as the man of her dreams, saliva draped carefully between the folds of her lips.

And her purse sliding between her perfect round bosom. She wears sunrise as her makeup, with gleaming colors of a portrait. A hue of morning yawn. Her methods are clairvoyant. She sweeps a floor, performing a geometry to meet her desires, back & forth.

A bowl full of summer rains. Tara is a madhouse, today. Her cotton saree slipping on the floor, almost swaying the mosaic squares of the floor. She runs like a fever in a house. Moist enough to hold and gulp. An insouciant flower of the Himalayas. She would shove all the flickering desires, like the peels of onion and garlic in the bin. Not giving care.

Tara goes off to another house now. Pinning and swirling her hair with a bobby pin once again and she sweeps the floor again. A house so porous. Almost like a slice of starlight.


 

Call for submissions- Olive Skins

First of all, I would like to extend my gratitude to all my genuine followers who have supported my work in the best possible way over the years and so now I am thrilled to announce that my dear friend Kristiana and I are soon going to start our own collective OLIVE SKINS which is scheduled for June end. This collective will be a collection of all the brave voices out there which often go unheard by others. The aim is to take submissions about mental health, pain, abstract poems, and fiction.

Ink your beautiful words, surreal poetry, prose and fiction through our email. We want raw poetry, no same old cliched romance poetry, if you want to be romantic, show us that in your fierce style! The collective shall be themed base.

Guidelines-

Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.

  1. Send your work in a word file only.
  2. If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.

Poetry, Prose editor- Devika Mathur
Fiction editor- Kristiana Reed
Submit poetry, prose at oliveskinspoet@gmail.com (send up to 3 pieces)
Send all the short creative/non-creative fiction at myscreamingtwenties@gmail.com

  • Send your work along with a short bio.
  • Deadline- 30th June
  • Currently, we shall not pay our contributors but will do our best to promote your work!
  • Submissions will be open throughout the month of June.
  • The theme for our first issue – “Loss.”

So let’s get this started and start sending your submissions soon!


Much love

Uniformity

Imagen de ᎡᎪ

There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
cracks open
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as        d e a  t  h
you know you will ultimately sink.

You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?

A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.

For it has been corroded, now.

Tired,
tired
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!


Submission for Olive skins

dear readers!

I am talking like this after ages, I know. Thing is something is there I feel lacking inside me. That satisfaction, maybe? Since past many days, i have been observing the silent response on my blog, not that i care for the stats. But the comments are the things which always uplifted me.

i have toiled like anything for this poetry blog of mine. I have written god knows n number of poetries by now. So, the thing is if it is not doing good now, i want to know the reason!

and yes, i am as always grateful to all my readers who have read me for all these years. I have been busy lately because of so many other things. But i sincerely want to extend my thanks to those who were there to read me!

drop your comments may be, of what you think of my poetry?!

 

have a great day ahead!

A women’s spring

i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

We are the voice

⁽⁽ଘ(Seldsum)ଓ⁾⁾

i understand that feeling of leaking.
an untold truth from your orange laps,
You breathe deeply, like a concave mirror dropping in shreds.
You wish to be gentle, to be soft.
A smouldering aroma that sits quietly on the bosom, nonchalantly.

I understand the pain and the peeling of throats past evening,
You force a dry smile, day after day on your smitten wrinkled face.
I understand how the walls of your lobby appeared,
lost in ignorance,
where people walked in and they left without a souvenir.

You have many branches, girl
smoke on an ashtray, burning still.
You can feel the hollowness of Earth.
the languid smell it holds, it carries us,
we the dead morbid souls.

I understand that lisp in your backbone,
your words burning inside like a leaf dying,
A point of everything comes for everything.
Accept it, girl, you are the voice.
Watch the sunset, you can swallow it all.