Meera does not hesitates to flip her hair in a motion of fabricated stories. She digests the moon and the tales like a wildflower growing. Her insanity is dreams and clouds, firm and evaporating. She sleeps with her open moist lips, dripping pain, violent way. Meera is system of crystalline chunks. Chunks of pepper and sugar, all god-like. Eating donuts of memory and fables of tattoo, Meera decodes her leg movements, her lipsticks stains of your shirt, on my shirt. She trembles to bleed, yet she camouflages in an aerial dandelion. Charred scars sits like an uninvited birthday on her spine, her bosom tender and flat.
She eats moss and drink moth in her drunk eyes. Eyes of iterative smiles, often Swollen tubes and tunnel swings beneath her thought machine, to define the process further. She is a bouquet of peanuts and a container of butterflies, a lavender incense in her throat. Needles of time chew her lips, she ages like an eye-shadow, with a question of fermentations still. Afraid of love & lust, slippery of tongues and knives makes her go mad. She is insane, I said that though ! The deluge of starfish in its own cobweb, that’s her. Agony atops her lavish heart, carnival today..carnival tomorrow like pristine flakes of squalid flux days eating her emotion.
Read the first part here.
Meera drinks nectar like an inconspicous child. With a bowl dipped in sugar lime soda. She travels around your iris,swallowing apples. All at once. The windowsill fades aways as she drops her clothes on her mosaic, transparent floor. Refraction delivers prejudice. A moist floor. A lady bird walks in an old fashioned way to sip her hollow images. Meera is an Ecosystem of sins and sins. A tapestry cracking.
She wears a deep mauvy bindi to discard her ebony scared patches of dead dreams.
She is like a shadow of an unlit oil lamp, threading a map of disgusts and soft lust onto her soft skin.Her outer skin defines mangroves and thunder. A cobweb.
Asphyxiation of dark charcoal, burning.
A soft kiss on a lover’s forehead. Squeaky.Gentle. Her body, a holy chant. Silent words plunged deep into her heart like an owl’s glance in austere darkness. Sharp.
She floats her arm in the void air and she becomes a forbidden territory. Demarcation.
Meera rests her heavy eyelids near your sequin moth- like mouth with a prismatic mirage of loops. As if she knows you.Her tampered electronic voice.
Her orange rusty elbows.
Pickle paradise rests somewhere in between her lofty legs, harrowing.
Her skewered jawline defining her rumpled life.Roads of distress.A conjunction of poets.
Meera is like a clay-ball. Elastic. Absorbing and sinking in her sickness and lies. Lies of trivial sagging head spins. All lies.
Summer breeze collides her eyes and fills her sloping toenails with antique emotions.
Meera is an art. A wooden box of pixie dust. Incensed with crisp secrets and desires. She floats with her semantics of time, piled like a silver stack of spoons.Galloping her fears, she puddles the dirt each day. May be that’s her crime.
Do you know her?