there is absolutely an archaic music ruffling in my ear,
I call it home.
wrapping a ceremony around my waist.
There is belongingness to this body,
with nature being receptive of my patterns.
A short, polka dot marrying the tablecloth.
the small details that you often ignore.
And I surrender my eyes, amongst the worldly chaos.
The chopping of walnuts, the breaking of my patient knuckles,
as if waiting desperately for something abnormal to occur.
Raindrops/ a plural form of tears.
or a. singular verb. to soothe the reaction of popping pills.
I rest my fingertips,
whirling blue pain,
as heavy a s a cotton ball
on the drops of this waterfall.
and you need to know
the music of love
silently, dripping from the sky.
Take your time
to know the flower,
the process of assimilation
mulberry touch of the warm earth.
Silence comes in surreal ways.
drink the nectars of blue lips.
Let it be,
the hanging clouds or your numb Cheeks.
Nature injects sweet nights often
disguised in a tunnel of metamorphosis.
Let it sit and evaporate slowly,
a skin so fresh and sublime, now.
A murder of a cold night
for grief is a slumber of dead skins,
The whole of purgatory is a lie of pale belching mouth.
Sip the nights now,
A tomorrow so bright, hanging on your verandah’s rope now.
This picture you see is a firework,
a shooter of transparent memories.
A vivid piece of artwork, fumbling across my face
with veins growing up in the sky
outwards and inwards
a low key noise/ stammering through the delicacy of time/
Isn’t it strange?
The oval diaphragm painted so calmly.
I see this pink sapphire picture
and I see my eyes there,
holding green, surreal dreams of a colorful palette
A quiet breeze of stars.
I see this starry studded picture now,
vehemently sipping bridge of cold laughter,
This is my evolution now,
trees beaming in a subservience forest.
a prayer so soft
I mumble each time
There is a method I perform my chants
like sticking to the table,
thumping my wrist against my forehead.
I wish to sneeze while praying
to eject sins,
a horror bowl that rests between my toes,
twirling softly and eating me bite by bite.
My prayers are often lullabies.
you scavenge while dreaming.
to sniff a piece of hope.
I do speak in four voices
that swirls my lock of hair.
I repeat my prayers when I am a shadow of a fallen sky
a bird that refuses to watch me.
nature has its way to corner from the human.
Without a shard of primrose,
A scourge of shaved earth.
And I change places
till I see a circumference of white powder
there, inside my mind
blooming the entire prayer
in colors of myth and violet rain.
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I have a picture
punctured and ironed inside,
a tale of twin sisters,
rising above your waist
with a pastel grey voice of mind.
The coherence of mute environment,
is like a prayer to me now.
A green straw up in the sky sucking
the chambers to drink nectar of white life.
I have arrived here,
here in the painted head of open mouths.
mouths that utter olive seas.
Here, I gather & loose myself,
a percolating fly doused in a tea stain.
Too many arms now
up in the sky
breaking a blurb of dark howl,
A new slippery existence
a new machanism of conjunction of elements.
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.
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.