Temperature as high as this pain,
grief: a dialogue now between this sour body.
A sinister talk to my mind,
threads of summer bright,
Yes, understand this poem now
understand the grief behind the back,
the bareback of velvet love,
the river madness,
my body shuddering like a torn piece of cloth
to miss your teeth on my chest,
your breath on my bosom.
Understand this departure, as well.
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!
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
the leaf shall die,
evaporating from the inner hemisphere of a tree.
And all that left is plastic,
a rubber ball
which might die soon,
Humans create temporary memories
and watch it detach.
Droplets of June nectar
in the dome sky
with one stone eye.
And then you see a tunnel
that stares back.
A nightmare is black
spitting nothing, yet
glancing the beautiful fall.
Fall of things and people.
It is in the end when the soul falls,
drawing a night out of the sky,
uttering facts about the exodus.
It roams doused in silver buckets.
I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.
I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.
It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.
I have spot to cry to myself,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
I stare at this spot of mine.
“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf
There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.
For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.
inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.
i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?
A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.
I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.
i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.
Observe the faint freckles between my fingers,
the red polka dot- a hum of my quiet anger,
slithering like thin sheets between two mouths.
lips- a place of complete soliloquy.
What do I see here?
A place of delusional spots,
hallucinations about a place like home.
So, I form a lotus with my hands,
a shape so pure, spitting shades of anger,
spitting again and again.
i form an Ode to the poetry,
through my index fingers, pastel skin blooming
and my knuckles rather happy.
This is a song I create, with a chest- brown light.
not everything stays.
Not people or letters.
i wrap my red poems amidst my lashes
and knitting them in my womb.
Something shall stay,
Here, amidst the wild eyes.