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.


Eulogy to Poetry

Sugar granules on my eyelids

define the numb, static voice

beneath the waves of poetry,

absolute darkness.

The times flutter on asymmetrical length

hypnotical lifeless mellow tunes.

Words break, poetry aborts

A mother takes a life of her son.

It’s sharp. Black.

As I think, a tree detaches a leaf

As I swirl, a star weeps

End. End. End.

Nature perspires wax,

drooling loose vibrations,

Ink is lacking from my blood.

My blood is blue in reverse order, stale.

How many more tantrums?

Time is satirical,

and my body sinks in pits of crime

Analogies weep and mother smirks.

Time ruins beautiful things,

spring- Ataxia of Poetry.

P.S- It’s not a complete Eulogy, but it’s quite insane to think what if one day it is?


Leftover Nights(A collaboration)

It gives me immense pleasure in finally collaborating with Poems in Coffer girl Chhaya. She is a lovely soul and so is her scintillating writings.
Italics- Chhaya


A room full of rancid leftover night
is a reminder of repugnant voids
that conform to the oddities
of a desolate decaying mind

I hear my mind crackling and fading with
whispers gone, numbness sticking
the walls break inside my opaque body,
thrashing and mocking soliloquy wilderness
Pain: the metamorphosis of painkillers, death.
Hold my cryptic thistle cacophonies
Like a lotus scratching a lotus.

the senescent atrophic walls
that preserve banal prosaics
from bromidic tales of love
are a source of an abhorrent odour
clogging conduits of all my senses
and all that permeates my cranium
is an insistent sound of stale knocks
that still linger on brazen panels
placed on fermenting doors of oak

Devoid of a filter,  cupid raspberry, air.
My veins play laconic tunes to deaf poetry
with sinking toes in a pool of madness
my body aches and desiccates, trepidation somewhere.
The wax image of my parched lips,
dribbles till the curtains evaporate.
Icicles of pain pokes my palm
Unheard epiphanies, unheard voices.
Wars occur and I am a black moon swinging.
Under the clock of stingy bees
I dedicate my memories
I dedicate my breaths, mirrors and lost talks.

and I grieve for murky windows
with shrivelled wavering frames
held by creaking rusted hinges
the ones that steadily deflect
every beam of light and hope
yielding layers of mouldy mildew
to spread like a suppurating sore
on the bod of my mephitic room
filled with leftover nights without you.

© Chhaya and MVS

Journey so far

A year and a half now on this beautiful platform which gave me an opportunity of sharing my writings and reading some brilliant work too. I want to take a moment and say how grateful I am to all the lovely people here who never fail to encourage and support me. A lot happened during this journey as once I also deleted my blog back in 2017 and then made this new one which again you guys flooded with love, thanks for that! Last year also I got featured in various beautiful online journals and with God’s grace, many more are upcoming including my next book.

To be honest, I don’t follow back all my followers for the mere fact that you are not my cup of tea doesn’t mean that you ain’t good. So let’s just say that! I deal with various body illness and often mind slaps which makes me write dark poetry. I know most of you must be like get over with it already…but if you don’t like it step ahead, please. I won’t stop writing what I feel. Oh yeah, I write philosophy too or love poetry too!

I have met some repulsive creeps also on WordPress which I can’t even begin to describe because I don’t want to. I don’t want to make my vibes squalid and disgusted.

And to all you lovely souls, thank you for your immense love, I hit 2K in December and since then I wanted to thank you all. I always shall appreciate you and I shall always breathe poetry.


A sweet puddle

A thin orange layered smoke of love strangles me

speaking your hands of love,

the arteries of amorous light.

Perspiration, Condensation

It shakes my head and puffs my hands

like a soft blow, a pigeon of my dream.

Dropping ink red kisses, purple waves

hushing me with blue’s of my words

and a strange noise, wrapped like a grey conch

or a sapphire on my wild tongue.

Give me a basket and I shall show you

inundate tales of pain, love, pain

inhibited in the black’s of my locks

indelible, water ripples.

touch and gone, a father’s pride

I shall show you

the wasted twists and memorable turns

my body sweats and sugar dissolves.

I feel the dust soaking my moisture

screeching, soiled pages of my old books

with the openings of nights and lilies, I breathe

and I breathe and I breathe. I try.


The Final Exit

The day I shed my skin,
what will it be named and scored
The table of mahogany, the scent of yellow stained old papers
the blanket now white would be turned crisp golden
Mosaic moments Transparent fragrance Cold evenings

With time as a poking device on my cheekbones
I would shed some pieces of satiation, hunger
on the nape of my thin neck,
Screams, lipid screams and tongues of unborn voices.

Knives as powerful as life,
will slap me with cuts and honesty
Stating the end of pavements, the end of seashore walks
Strangulating noises will go missing in my head,
That writer’s block will be missed as colossal as a thunder.
dropping sounds of Sonnets. Wheels of bleeding pale ink gushing my veins.

Thirst of a parched desert, Oval eyes seeping thrush blue waters.

I will be ashes and the rest will be an Ode
With sagging back, my lips will shout “POETRY”
Emulating peachy air of life- death
I will be a memoir and a tribute
I will be someone or something, in circles and loops.
The day I shed my skin.


Insanity clicks

aww. too cute. Mother & Daughter.

Ambivalent my throat shouts your name, mama
to see you breathing and breathing more
and the circle of killings and abusing entices again.
I heard my dad straddling and maintaining whisky
Burned Pale Chipped
You had it all mama, you had the walnut voluble mouth
speaking iterative hollows of time and its bent motion

You had the emporium of statues and movements.
Life existed in your eyes, and I saw it sincerely
with a callow foot, you walked and created squares
I cursed the moment, life played you
I cursed the moment father abused you
Unruffled Oblique Esurient

Mother, I faded myself to colour your skin
burying myself each day to provide you faint candlelight
Behind the shadows of blasphemous engine sounds
I knitted pillows and dreams
This moment is insane now I might lose myself
mama, hold on… I will knit my skin once again
to catch your life and slumber of peace.

Hold on, mama.


Shades of emotion-the black-the red-the grey

Image result for red and black

The Black

Hoops of the anxious soul are hanging in the most voracious way.I hear thunder, rustling silence.This is my first phase, anger.

The intimidating red eyes. The eyes of satan, they say. The faded shades of grey, charcoal, as my wrist remain crossed.

I put my wrist on top of my forehead.The sagging forehead.

The conundrum geography exists right here, sharply ecstatic.

Hot wax, profound depth, a lingering cold wave.

A dark, gruesome heart.

A ghost- like canopy of thoughts.

The Red.

This is a melancholic phase.

A lugubrious red sorrow shining on my pinky finger, the tales of the darkly skinned elbow.

the bends on my skin, my crooked skin.

the way sky forms uneven patterns,

leaving us bewildered of the richness, the great creations.

All I see is complexities, the bars of a collision, gateway of numbness.

A stoppage.

The vague dreams.

Now the heart is crooked.

The Grey.

A wave of cornered soul resists like the last droplets of rain.

Tiring yellow pages, not desiring to be read further.

Monotonous paths, monotonous tones, monotonous human.

I kiss my pain in a breezing way, hugging my own doleful pits.

the screams forms chains of comfort, the sky is indicating a pattern,

the crookedness is recovering into a deeper hole

name it comfort?Name it a bliss. Oh!Don’t name it.

As it’s still  a vivid hole, murky,

dark, distilled in my conscious, collided with my mindset,

it’s grey here, my palm is feverish

my eyelids are the coherence of deeper shades of grey

this is the phase,

this is the ultimate revival, mystical.


Anonymous Bond


Do you hear me breathing? In the moments of translucent air,
where our breaths collapses and cling onto each other,
where the crooked walls burst, like jackfruit ripening
purple colours pouring onto our bed covers here I breathe
contours of sparkling waters brushing my dead spirit, fully awake.
The screams, shouts, jingle,
And splashing of Ganges water on my shivering feet,
Awake, awake, awake.
Spinning the floor, spinning in your mind, do you hear me breathing?
I draw my gold carvings on your teeth, on your body
where the twinnings of winter tree is chopped,
You hear the chopping?
I extend my feet, they are poetry.
I extend my white cadaverous feet on your sturdy shoulder,
Do you hear me wheezing?
Do you see a lake of satisfaction splashed on my arms now?
Do you see, do you hear my red songs?
You are my canvas. You are my unnamed bond.


The way it is.


Image result for hurt paintings
image credits- Pinterest

A box of hidden muse resides in my heart. I try to hear the amorphous murmur the times I am cold in my warm blanket. The smoke and ashes brew a pool of blurry images, my past tales that plunge deep into my veins, unable I am to move. Numb my thighs remain, numb my eyes remain.

My room walls have gone pale, shooting bullets in my mouth, it hurts.

The conundrum scissors mock my caricature, forming turbulence on my ceilings, in my ceilings. Nothing erupts out but the insipid cold droplets of heartaches, drop by drop it falls on my fingernails, burning like ice, cold as ice, that is how numb I float in the horizon of duplex walls.

Like my chin resting on that eccentric needle, swords fighting producing my legs and arms, now they remain silent and here is the time, when the incumbent work is at a halt.

So I wither and wither.