Living with poetry

 

Each day i grow poetry out of my stillborn toes
where words drip honey, moisture and powder to evolve,
Words.   They rotate inside my iris, whirlpooling like catharsis.
Inch by inch, shifting like the moon,
embossing the sky, they perch on orchids,
to suck nectar,
to suck poetry from there.

And I see and grow outnumbered limbs all over my body.
The facets from my skin leak poetry as a seduction,
Romancing to ink, stains and silhouettes,
Life’s favourite romance is with poetry.
I have prolonged life maybe
and words are a lengthy delusion,
Quieter yet stronger.

I lit a forest inside my body.

a nameless land

i am a hysteria of beauty and ugliness,
eloping like a gulf,
a street shop of diamonds, cheap and blemished.
It happens at a time,
I evolve and dupe into my billowing mirage,
eyes lost in a dyslexia of love,
something chuckles inside my flesh of concave mouth
a pink belonging to my entire body,
a paroxysm of a gasp of air running like a haze, in the eye.
I watch this mirror now, the crucifixion of love and melancholy
to my body and scars,
this water lilies emerging inside my teeth,
and i have a swollen left cheek, from the last night’s bite
and a swollen neck, scratching
words of murder,
if i am the saline waters, barefoot
with no signs of lotus.

---

W O R D S – A N D- L O V E

if my fingers break
 with the timeline of chiselled cheeks
 of lust for words
 of hunger for hunger

if turquoise veins
 open up,
 longitudes of the fallen mind
 like the rupturing of seeds
 without a sound,
 a mindless game
 What it shall be called?

the itch on my legs
 on my lips of words,
 a lover of minds
 click: and a word appears
 like a magic or a sonogram
 What it shall be called?
 My cleaved mind
 or the love of broken nails.

©WORDS- Devika Mathur/ MVS

Eyes of Words

Pinterest

No, I don’t write to cherish your cotton melodies.
An orange boy sleeps as I write and decorate my pages with
mannequins of moist thoughts.
There is a broken periphery as my words, letters unfurl the unsaid.

The corrosion of tanned face, the bleeding of fingers
onto this sheet that absorbs my coconut ink, seems seamless to me.
I don’t write to make you believe in my writing,

Fuming naphthalene skies, beneath my words
Iterative slumber happens. A baby is born.
Like ferns and twists of my tiny arms and twists
my words open, a reverie. A Hypothesis.

And so I don’t write to write. My fingers disintegrate and I ripple again.

---

Poetry and Ink.

No, it did not start with the extraction of bones and marrow. Neither, there was an epiphany.
I pluck my eyebrow with a sharp pencil, to check the skin underneath. A bizarre.

Mockery of a round square pats my naked back, yelling I have something inside my earlobe too.
So, I prick my navel and join the rummaging polka dots meeting my ankle, eroding the black spot finally.

What is there after all beneath my transparent skin? I burn. I burn.
Enough by now, drinking, smoking indivisible moments. They inundate like ant colonies.

For I have a single eye, a single lip, a single leg, a single tornado
The rest is a stone of Poetry and a wool of Ink.

---

Last Single Existence

I am silvered and stickered
in the blue’s of despair
hunting my scalp
down to the ankle stain,
recidivating, collapsing
For the roads are a summer breeze
tropical, slapping my coarse breast
the humming is repetitive.
like insanity clicking
Artless.

Viscous walks defy my extinction.
The roars and shouts, scrapping my last
single bit of blood
my last single ounce of sleep.
my last single mouth of chalks and blackboard.

---

©MVS image and words

Aphorism

MVS
What intrigues my eye the most is the sweetness and copious jelly myths of the world. A truth about death and beauty. Shapes genesis hoodwinked as orange sunsets, leveraging. I form petty diluted circles of observance hanging outwards from my malice thighs. A point of dissatisfaction. Itching of my eyelids emphasize that.I become a murmur retracing my vintage memories and an array of laughter. Is that real?

Pain makes you semi-liquid. Oozy and dropping.You want to lick its hard mahogany slurps and burps, you fail. There is a point of indifference arising in the lines of palms and ankle. The resistance. The stagnation. The repetition. Mollusc scalded and halved to bear fruits and offsprings. Offsprings of delusions and love. And a linear equation is formed like a stack of memories stored in the jar from a lush garden. So, is this real?

---

© Image and words- MVS

A Madhouse

The sound of water almost uncanny,
 A plastic bag bloats and floats
 like a memory of thoughts
 piled and halved beneath,
 my sagging skin of skins.
 The room is a liquid gel
 with my thoughts arrested,
 sleek and colourful.

Water Ripples
 my thoughts bifurcate further
 With tunes of melancholy
 and cascading mystical languages.
 It's supernatural.
 To observe the stagnant darkness
 with my crisp white eyes
 A twig eating another twig.

I sit and scream
 in the slivers of time
 piercing through this vacuum body,
 I hear rumbling of sky
 detonating my body vapours
 I nourish the thoughts
 like a cotton swab
 softly, piling and weeding.
 It's almost ethereal.
®MVS

---

Beyond Hope

The night knitted our bodies like lanterns lit
with navy-blue aromas,
with currents storming
with sands under my body of hope,
with utopia and songs messed up in my head.
You wrapped my raisin skin,
performed colourful themes
like an Orion singing,
poetry dancing.

The night stimulated
the thunderstorms,
with Petrichor,
dripping from my tongue
With sunflowers melting
on our wax bodies
And the texture changing,
Earthquakes happening.

I grew a day older that day,
to see your landscapes and pyramids
sulking on my lips
sulking in my eyes,
A destiny.
You bit my neck that night
and you saw your name imbued
in frames and pieces
like a soft cloth residing
under my moonlit blood
You knew that day, we shared something more
beyond the stars.
Like Spring approaching.

®MVS

---

 

It’s all Unnatural

It’s unnatural how you fall for me every day among the sunsets and pancakes. You caress my elbow, a star falls right upon my sliced forehead. The partitions are yellow, perforated, a sublime concoction of moisture and stories to foretell. The hoop of canticle vortex slides on my plump thigh and you begin to smile. It’s unnatural how you pause and speak. A diamond crackles in South. Blueberries put me to sleep in a land cryptic.

My nail cutter goes missing and my nostrils clog. I am a stack of insomnia with your wilderness living in my caramel heart. You wink and the paths collide. Shimmers. Cocktails of foreign kisses. My words vacillate with slick back pepper distorted prints. I blend in your pristine blood and something occurs. It’s all unnatural.

Fabrication of memories flutter. My lips and tongue all in motionless picture breaks. Silence and Love. Love and Silence. My eyelids are soft now, like baby powder on my stomach, sliding and awake. You sit and breathe effortlessly. Alchemy occurs.

It’s all unnatural.

Words

In a circle full of moisture and baked apple pie’s, I crave and hold the periphery of Words like a sullen extension of truth. A point of solitude. I rub my skin to find the unsaid, undiscovered words, I rub my iris, my white thighs like a fiction produced by swallowing catharsis.

Discover. Run. Run in your stockings. Run in your shoes. Find the haze. Catch the molecules. Choke on the existence of W O R D S. Seduction. Dedication. Sanctification. I don’t want to be alive, for I am soiled and drunk. I am married to the drops of inebriation of pale figure.

Magic.

Drop by drop I bleed poetry and imbricate the words on my yellow walls, on the roofs of my cracking teeth. Bites of cold potato shiver me, and hence a word like Intrigue sticks to my milky cleavage.

There lies churning noise of whispers now, a seepage. The thunders on the hills and the thunders of my words are the same. Yes, I OWN M Y W O R D S, clinging its petals to my naked waist and there is an Equilibrium.

Mellifluous. Limerence.

The winter is born.

---

®My Valiant Soul

W O R D S

incensed paper 
outflux, swarm of stars
hearts rummaging, sharp curves
water ballons dancing
ink, words, bleed.
Coconut dips, beaming thighs.
Sharp, eccentric.
W O R D S    FLOATING  
UPWARDS 
               DOWNWARDS.
®MVS

Scars

Pinterest

People are like stagnate rubber elasticity

with structures clinging our forehead, sweating cold sweat

Impulsive, off-hand contusions of smiles

Like eruption of S W O L L E N E A R L O B E S

A segment of Paraffin wax coating the lights on my ceiling

Mourning and screaming( inaudible noises, inaudible voices)

My windows ache the heartbreak and the candle refuses to lit the other twin

People will cleave to the formation of inheritance: soil

They are always temporary, they shall leave you like the parallax of a stigma.

---

®My Valiant Soul

Yellow Segments

image courtesy Pinterest

I have detached my cellophane dreams with your cold shiverings

Sustenance to moments invite a vaporizing acceptance

My breaths carve my bones as I count the stars,

Hopes can be delusional, hope can be aimless.

It only moulds the opening of my bosom

where a stack of anti-oxidant hid.

The penumbra of opaque sunrays never lie, it portends a fact.

Under the quietness of my mole, a layer of satisfaction arise

Seepage, Integration, Addition.

My skin kisses my lips, I sit and watch the pervasive love

Inside the language of gods, a clock of soft murmur arise

Trusting the humans once again,

trusting the pillow talks again and again.

Paper-Cuts

 

image credits- Google

 

 

Pellucid petals of lust,
I, lean over to smell the paper,
Where I lament my dead hopes
burning ferociously.
My pen is pervicacious
inclined to savour the smoke ignited.
The words are my soul,
Insatiable I am dipped in its white corona.
Cathartic particles of serenity forms
as I write my love,
The paper, the pen, the paper-cuts
soaks me in its sullen charm.
And I declare my writing — my muse.

©My Valiant Soul

---

 

Insatiable hunger

Inside the rim of a bottle
Or outside the grilled window
You poke and churn the mystical hoax
Digesting into the pool of madness
A reverie. A fiction. A ballistic throttle.
A healing iris. A gargantuan of flowing words. A paroxysm.
Peel the skin, scratch the inside of an apple
Search the word, burn it and inhale in
your surreal peace, preen the mirth
And swallow the liquidity, join your body
With its formation, a constellation of stars
Then, you shall know insatiable hunger.