Memories

image- self

The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

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Contrast

Teenagers in the 1950's much more elegant than teenagers now...
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Circulation of stars was more familiar during
those sincere days when our bodies felt the lust,
the smitten rose kiss, the dandelion slaps
on our naked, yellow tongues.
Telephones were intriguing, for addiction kills.
Fingernails did not chap, broken things did mend.
Inside the tubes of bars, ladies enjoyed
with a brew of solace and poised wise.
My teeth crack to see the irony today,
humanity dies, numbing the skies.
Sometimes when I walk on moist roads,
The oak and the cactus pigments my impeccable skin,
slapping mud onto my thighs, making me realise a sigh!
For life's revenge is time,
And nothing binds the state of time.


My latest work published on Duane's Poetree.
-My Valiant Soul

A naked Observation

 

London, 1908.
image courtesy- Pinterest

 

Forbid me from not inviting you to the dinner tonight,

The reservations are kept clean and precise

We shall make Spaghetti Arrabiata and will murmur talks.

Talks about new locality, a lamenting voice of new priests doing exorcism

Surrounding my pesky air, claps and thunder shall be mixed in your wine

A charcoal dust will caress your cheekbones, piquant games of truth and dare

A memoir, a brandishing clamour of naked bodies will dance

Time teaches time about the modals of life

and human bites time again and again.

I scream inch by inch like the wing of sparrow (Hush, hush, hush)

Needles revolve, this golden sundial stands frozen

Some say the truth, others are clowns well decorated in their own pits.

Forbid me from not inviting you to the dinner tonight.

 

-My Valiant Soul

Evolution

Alcohol on my newly-born skin,
Do you see the patterns and the checks, the spotted wings?
I lick this ferocious almond scales on my skin, counting the pores
And I measure the breadth and length, obtaining details of details.

The oak tree knows the dents and paints
in the surreal landscape, where people romance
The lavender fields twist in its imperfection,
it sees black, grey, black, grey.

We travel and remorse like a soaked cotton ball in hallucinations,
We learn and emancipate, we gulp metamorphosis
and stack our bodies with memories, rub eyelids to breathe.
We survive and smoke, smoke till the moon spits anger, guilt to our innocence if any.
We are a floating wax of titanium spirits yet we fear cravings. Solivagant in dreams.

I suck the sand, the colourful dust and lips of my lover
I suck the galaxy of you and me.
I know, this arithmetic of us and time. We will evolve too.


©My Valiant Soul

Recurrence

Excrusius

 

A death star dissects my white bare skin

And lanterns of judgments evolve like the zombies of oblivious sand

The peppermint of the next hour circulate in my iris,

Unconsolidated reverie of prayers,

asking the same coherent word.

Promises, a fallen star, destruction

all are in symmetry if one leaves other stays

Inch by inch I grow old, I see old music swaying on my freckled palms

Day by day, something occurs.

Numbness, lust, numbness. A prostitute cries and seduce.

I revolve around your milky lie, willing and wishing.

Thistles and apple grow across my ceilings, and the moment is a serenity.

I count my blood day and night, counting back and forth

to detect a sacrosanct lie, to detect a dead emotion

Illusions, Temple-bells, deaths, births, Bible verse,

I savour the ink and spray a molecule of each on my strawberry neck,

flavours and index of fortune float in the melancholic ebb.

The winter winds throw tantrums and my ex-lovers burn in disgust,

burning half lit cigarettes onto my fallen dying lips, making my body into ash.

Chopping and chopping the undone mistakes,

Probing into fathoms of undissolved wax of recurring spindle collision.

©My Valiant Soul


 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday and Breakfast

Here, I speak the truth to you,
the lies of occupation in appealing people’s sorrow
and the green urban dirt— a ghastly deduction of smiles
makes me a cooked vase of emptiness.
Monday: oh, it pours the spikes in my stomach
and churns the pancreas till the heart bleeds.
Saturday: a monotonous tone of soils parching,
producing fungus and mushrooms
Nothing remains a wall of concrete harmony.
This tongue here craves the stardust of sunshine if any.
Something between moist eyes and moist thighs goes missing,
something between the linings of bricks and charcoal is vintage epoch.
The aprons, the tables, the cigarettes
the Sundays and the breakfast of savouring
my thunder, clasping the pharynx of my scandalous worth
is my favourite.

©My Valiant Soul


 

Observe

A desperate need to go far away

Did you hear the storms and see the opaque thunders?
The time when a body is a box of twitches and imperfections
like pervasive corrosion of diamonds,
too deep and too broad to demarcate a periphery.
A thunderbolt is riveting inside my earlobe.
A thin film of vintage cassettes play the sorrows,
trembling in the momentum of hurricane body.
Ransacking inner soul to find a twitch, a glitch.
A pack of stars drowned in the blue hemisphere
Music: an extension of crooked smiles,
Swaying of broken memories and false hopes
Is that you hear too?


©My Valiant Soul

Things I crave

 

 

Serge Ivanoff
image credits- Pinterest

 

I sit beneath this concave moonlit and put my ink on my naked body tonight.
I count the loses and the victories I have had, the outnumbered lips of kisses and the bottles of venom. I draw a map to the moon, I draw stars to my breasts.
I crave the branches of this grapevine romancing with the blueberries.
I crave my frosty lips sucking the zeal out of the chilled beer.

This place, this soft breeze benedicts the wisdom. It teaches about multiplication and deduction. A topology of human indeed is dust. The slick fingers often do not regenerate and the countless stars are only to make your skin sullen and eyes full of baked memories. Winters are the unsaid words from your beautiful carbon mouth. Thousands of Aurora skin glitter around your geometrical waist.

I crave the poetry of your eyes. I crave the potion, religion, purity from your skin. I crave words. I crave flowers dancing on a hillside.
I crave horrendous veracity from your writings.

The world shall seem mystical, where the peacocks might sing the 80’s song. Hilarious gloomy nights often teach you the truth of your life. “Nothing is forever”

I crave the smell of daffodils. I crave the sultry nights of desiccated romance from my veins and the continuous burning smell of my cigars.
I crave wisdom, I crave wilderness.

©My Valiant Soul


 

Invincible for Once

Infront of me I see a stack of leaves,
dwindling in the joyous cool breeze
The neem tree singing its prayer,
A prayer to soothe my skin.
The petals of pink orchid thrum the formidable chants of love,
I listen and absorb the essence into my cloud-like body.
I hear whistles of raindrops, I hear the whirling of thunders declaring a palpitation.
Throbbing of earth, romancing of rains with the parched earth.
Blooming, blooming, blooming.
Birds perching on my window heart.
I hear my sheeny cracks of bone,
Waving, twirling to declare
An emotion, a feeling, isn’t it the same?
My thighs throb, flowing in the air among the glossy grass.
Can you stop my this flow?
Invincible I will become.

Illusion

what a cold star i would make. — 	seven word poem // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

In the hush moments of orange silence
A war between scissors and wet lips occur
where this smoke burns my tongue and vapours of half abstraction arise
A deluge of storms and black skins float, black is favourite.
Between lights and array of point blank, something goes missing
Between my white thigh and quarantine of delusions, my toothaches
A series of corpse surround my waistline, delphic view of sorrows drip
smoke burns the truth, I spill the scars like a needle piercing my susceptible skins,
A burning wall of benumbing silence churns inside my mouth.
Vexation, annihilation, perception.
And the rest is all illusion.


©My Valiant Soul