Tara remembers her doings. The pale kitchen sink speaking of chipped dreams, tectonic thighs of fidgeting swamp. Her lipstick is all nude today. Nude as the man of her dreams, saliva draped carefully between the folds of her lips.
And her purse sliding between her perfect round bosom. She wears sunrise as her makeup, with gleaming colors of a portrait. A hue of morning yawn. Her methods are clairvoyant. She sweeps a floor, performing a geometry to meet her desires, back & forth.
A bowl full of summer rains. Tara is a madhouse, today. Her cotton saree slipping on the floor, almost swaying the mosaic squares of the floor. She runs like a fever in a house. Moist enough to hold and gulp. An insouciant flower of the Himalayas. She would shove all the flickering desires, like the peels of onion and garlic in the bin. Not giving care.
Tara goes off to another house now. Pinning and swirling her hair with a bobby pin once again and she sweeps the floor again. A house so porous. Almost like a slice of starlight.
First of all, I would like to extend my gratitude to all my genuine followers who have supported my work in the best possible way over the years and so now I am thrilled to announce that my dear friend Kristiana and I are soon going to start our own collective OLIVE SKINS which is scheduled for June end. This collective will be a collection of all the brave voices out there which often go unheard by others. The aim is to take submissions about mental health, pain, abstract poems, and fiction.
Ink your beautiful words, surreal poetry, prose and fiction through our email. We want raw poetry, no same old cliched romance poetry, if you want to be romantic, show us that in your fierce style! The collective shall be themed base.
Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.
- Send your work in a word file only.
- If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.
Poetry, Prose editor- Devika Mathur
Fiction editor- Kristiana Reed
Submit poetry, prose at firstname.lastname@example.org (send up to 3 pieces)
Send all the short creative/non-creative fiction at email@example.com
- Send your work along with a short bio.
- Deadline- 30th June
- Currently, we shall not pay our contributors but will do our best to promote your work!
- Submissions will be open throughout the month of June.
- The theme for our first issue – “Loss.”
So let’s get this started and start sending your submissions soon!
There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as d e a t h
you know you will ultimately sink.
You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?
A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.
For it has been corroded, now.
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!
Submission for Olive skins
I sit quietly,
observing the silent curves of this Plumeria,
a life extending like an infant.
No lament today,
only the surreal fire of this body,
listening to the hanging exhilaration.
As if, it digests the broken star
running across it’s face of thawed bone.
It shifts it’s mouth
to a better pathway.
It has a space to collect water,
to extend a chin of its part
biting this orange earth sipping sunlight.
This flower disobeys my myth
in small portions for me to eat.
There is a half – eaten Poetry
that I saw today,
hidden in the soft folds of life.
I think of keeping it’s lesson
soft as a summer grass
on my productive legs today.
Coconut water. A vintage period film.
Clouds that speak a simple language.
A symphony sitting behind my silhouette,
a whimper of art.
Circles of red tensions,
swinging to swing my hair hard.
A lipstick so dark,
my hands suffice the pain…
and the parched lips, bodies producing chemicals.
Fever in ropes of summer evenings.
You know how to feel it.
To drink it like a lemonade, sour/ therapeutic.
My life for you.
it begins as a full stop,
ends with a diagram of loss and repair.
My latest work published on Piker Press
In the silence
of mists and haze,
a poem falls from my sunny hairdo.
a Garland of potions & subservience,
an epoch of timeless gravity.
sitting and sewing a tale
inside my neon stomach.
A blue light,
so tangerine running through here,
lost in the evening,
lost in me.
I hear the garlands of solitude,
I watch the trepidations,
so full and convex.
I slip my hands through
this departing air
and I feel like another woman.
Fidgeting the remains of earth.
P s – my poem published on Mad Swirl.
A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.
Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.
Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.