you will find ink blurb, parched words,
acoustic in air,
a hot burning potpourri
and my ink romancing with words.
this is what i will leave when i die-
a torn cloth, stinking souvenirs,
words like thick and sick stick to my tongue,
a concave road of anxiety on my wrists.
for i had no people in my pockets,
i had no eye contact,my conversations with stars
made me fall in love with the moon,
and its dark now, nocturnal love.
Pain. The most inexplicable beauty of humans. Masked and tattered. Orange peel-like surface. As you begin to walk, you feel the blurb of suntanned skins. Lack of juices. ShOrtening of breaths. And there is this pain, gazing your throat. Knuckles break, like the liquids of body evaporating.
Rancid platter of nostalgia. You try to walk away and so you pop pills.
splashing your face with haze- with a spot as black as a pupil.
It has a demure, an oval semblance to shadows. Silk eyed folds. Beneath the nocturnal facets and crevasses, you leak just like that. And you leak until you begin to daydream. Until you are broken and unpleasant to taste. Your juices stink. Your pool of paradise is dried up. Here comes the itch. The itch to bend and smell the distant whiff of loneliness. What does night eat after its done pleasing? Pleasure ends like that.
Loneliness weeps and grows like a fungus
in toes and fingernails, with cascading webs of cryptic silence
It shudders like hurricanes,
a mirrored tattoo of wild breaths,
Yellow you may say—
It clasps inside my knee joint
I am born again, inside the pain of lone nights
with a silent bat hovering my windowsill
and my half lit cigarette, peek a boo.
These are stages of disintegration,
body biting body
skulls digesting mucus.
Thousands of pools of madness
Loneliness is a silent killer.
Iron tongues. Levitating.
Circles residing in the swamps of squares,