The wound is where the hurt has lived and been nurtured. How do we plan to discard it now? Are we enough to understand the fragility of emotions- certainly we are. We are the sinners and the bearers of its entrop, of its magnanimous callous injury. We swallow pain each day and night. I wonder what does it become once it injects our bloodstream. Does it pinch and ache further? Or does it swirl in the air- like a thick cloud of a giant's saliva.The air must be lukewarm. With softer lotions of time for time must tear the air inside the chest. The heaviness must inflate further. Invisible sewing machines. The most intriguing part of human is perhaps his fear and love- imagination in paper. We perhaps always come back to aberrance. To ambuguity of life and people. We come back, eventually to nights with fallen jasmine on floors.
Tag: pain
Open Screams
Hi!
I have not written here since last month. As you all know, India is dealing with the second treacherous wave of pandemic and somehow i managed this . While my parents are still recovering my heart goes out to every life lost, every soul that departed too early. It will take time to accept this loss. The body is in a state of archaic , numb loss.
This emptiness is a sullen sky
droplets of opaque women tears
with lanterns so bright, it almost blinds you.
next to my body rests a stack of another human forms
degenerated, transparent as the rain
with no family left, words lost
bruised up thigh, femur now disjoined.
next to my breath, is a women gasping already
for a husband, gasping for the open sky.
The surgeons of my city are tired, breathless and full of insomnia
they stammer and talk about open wounds
about lungs so swollen
screams of air- air-air across the hallway,
screams about ventilators, one more oxygen cylinder.
the screams are bluish tint
of fever so high now
almost strident with trees growing up in the sky.
The floors have gone mute,
the child is lost counting a mute, tongue less dance: left with nothing.
The tampered cassettes are stuck already
tethered onto something less painful.
Where does this merge to?
Where does this lead us now?
Shouts , screams and lungs still infected.
Time collapsed inside my mouth of fear.
Stay safe.
The itch
the itch,
the orange glass ceilings always fail my existence,
an inhuman thing sinks beneath my eyelids
walking abruptly, in patterns unknown,
there are things which makes no sense
a loose river like madness
a loose butter like sky slipping from my white hands,
my hands which are now counting the marks of my footprints
making a spiral knot about this moments,
this momentary void inside of me,
this permanent injuries inside of me.
as everything engulfs everything
the violence in its own chest
the cold murder of my hands
and the body still counts the days left to breathe.
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
The Night
And after the things have been quiet,
a slow nocturnal pause returns
a pause to collapse again,
There is an endless whistling,
with a bleached sky
a bleached portion of the sunset
I can still touch it,
the surface of things breaking apart,
the nuisance of the blood vessel
the hanging canopy of faces: dry/parallel.
The night takes everything within itself,
abandoned by all,
it has not the face of love.
I know the sniff of abandonment
where the night spews distorted loneliness
through my body – a pool of flustered pink love.
———————————————————
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
Crimson skins – US
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
The art of grief
and all my body is a temple
a temple or a place where i dedicate my sins to bloom into petals.
A hung white cotton thread that stitches the lip,
a mouth so corrosive,
eyes tired of nothingness.
The abstract silence sits upon my chest rummaging through my body.
I feel nothing,
nothing like a bedroom door,
quiet and hysterical.
This is the motion of mundane surreptitious talks, i do.
Do not comprehend more.
I write because of loneliness, tonight
damp torquoise paths
because of uncalld sadness, grinning at my own pain.
i think of myself as a silver figment of broken imagination
cluttered jawlines/ defining rotten choir of vacant sun.
the lips sequines on the pillow to cry further
about the hurt on the knee, circling the entire room of light.
my presence paints a dark star on th e night, tonight
a bloody dark spot.
What shall happen to me next?
The hole that gullets its teeth, will you see me there?
Dimensions of Pain
Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.
Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.
i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.
A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.
I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.
a hollow night
” I am terrified by the dark thing that sleeps in me”- Sylvia Plath
Cluttered, torrential nights of stone sinking throat,a huge titanic of this time,
my sheets turning into white ghost,
a ghost of you,
my words that were never said.
You, the lantern of chipped nights,
A mesh of annihilation.
You come and perch on my dreams, like satan a missing subsisting eye or a lip. Time kills me before you make me dark, dark as my old rusty windowsill,
with a dying flaky dream.
this thing inhuman wraps my skin of lemon peels
my skin of words and reverie.
my skin…
my darling skin…
( continuous screams of inexplicable pain, now/)
You can taste pain like this
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.
what remains- time kills
sediments of love and despair,
like a dose of a morbid orchid petal,
throbbing in my blue cheeks
my limbs are rooms, small pavements that you rock
small parts, dilating trembling stairs of life,
a star inside a boxed room of loneliness
revolving in the thicket sheets of air,
a haze and a backache.
a periphery of grapevines, strangling
telling me to be naked on the evil plates of loss.
i bite my lips.
i bite my lips.
my body is nothing but a voice of pain
shredding, autumn leaves
a loose fitted, transitory polar air,
cold, crisp and moist like
a surgeon bisecting my legs, my frozen tongue.
and i am nothing
only a figment of blurred smoke,
ashes like a solid piece of rope.
i embraced this pain
untouched by the morning kiss,
a throbbing churning exists in the epicentre of tongue,
a lust, a toothache
starting from my red lips, a reflection of sunset charms
this pain is my baby now, spring’s soft song,
a hush raindrop patting my cheeks.
my two red feet,
conducting a juice of ache,
my pain of body, the missing inch of a finger.
a decoration of walls now,
i embrace the moments of white-faced love now,
my body of thorns,
a galaxy of orange breaths.
i become sunsets dripping blood moon.
motions of an eye
I wake up like a morose light, struggling to die again.
Like hurricane to lost voices, burning alongside with bare chest, bare hands.
cease and demarcating the thousands of muted language
gushing through my spines and eyes,
My widowed palms are oily, lavender diffuser emptied.
and i perch on the laps of a sleepless blue continent.
This sacred feeling is like a giant whale, eating me whole,
rubbing between its bleeding hands,
distort like a lake, a sky of colourless beams
and hearts set on fire.
I twist in my body more and more,
a little more, into this dreamless barrier of pause.
The spun of itch, the scars.
the flat rooted chest- all like a flower now,
blooming.
i flex my knuckles to count the bones, hallow sinking chunks of skin.
this pain is a flat horizon of a flower.
Pointless air-i breathe
what if my entire body is stones and drugs
with a sound of silence
pieces missing, haywire mercury temperature
like a slurp, books in the air.
Breaking monotony, scratching my innermost thigh skin
and bleeding like the blood of sanguine valley.
How many steps do I have to perform?
To be lost.
to be a volatile air.
amorphous, porous
Trees of death define people and deeds
Horrors sit and immaculate in ounces of despair
spick and span, the atmosphere that I carry
or abrasive at times,
I do not know much.
The point is i am bleeding like a lotus in a sink.
and I need closure, sun in the fist controlling myself, sulking my aches.
The eyelids are swollen and broken
with scars running through the table and the wet floor
the point is I am lost and surreptitious
like a dried lemon-peel in the air, aerial.
aerial my body, aerial my legs, a cacophony of that.
The point is, I feel pointless at times, like the sip of wine.
I have visuals down my throat of sleepless nights,
potions and pills
and no face of roses in my garden, holes in the punctured air
i have it all in the box
down my body
down my abdomen
and still its all pointless.
_______________________________________
p.s-I am back with my thoughts. Yiee.
Music of pain
a voice is creating a map inside
breaking my legs, my arms
into the eye of nothingness
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
my lids are dropping day by day
i considered rescuing poetry,
the pale fonts, tampered words
and it ate me, slurping mouths,
Vermillion floating mirrors,
stuck to my lips
and cracking the pain
on the floor for you to dance,
it’s a pattern.
it kills and kills
obdurate music of pain.
such coldness slipping,
stopping the clock of gods,
speaking or praying.
this coldness is chilling
with a hint of a lone heart.
i die here.
©Image and words-MVS
Black pain & walls
i have fallen with troops of maniac inside this cold body disappearing jawbones of sins and masters of death residing inside this globe, the pool of ataxia, the pool of coherence with red pale evenings growing, chilling, breaking, falling, Abstruse thumbs of broken lines making me thaw, ice-cold teeth cracking on black grounds, with lonesome stars, knitting my naked body like a work of brilliance, spider's- job, still, i fall this time... i fall & it hurts.
®MVS
missing-breaths
How do you define my perforated body aches with meteors dissolving? It’s an harrowing scenario with blood screams, thunders stuck to my backbone. Lipids going haywire and my eyes swollen with a pool of tyranny. Nostrils flutter like vintage sheets of paper, obsolete in obscure point. A point of missing mornings and seasons.
Each night, i hang like a loose memory, thermometer and fever, clinging my spinal cord and striking deaths and sins of sinisters.
The autumn leaves wrapped to my bare skin,defying the existence of bequeathed lives I survived. The midnight burning oils & lamps. The clocks of death. And my earthly body.
I perspire like an old lady, clinging to the curtains of pink breaths. With a casket of stars & hope swallowing like an infant, I fight oh yes I do. I precipitate and conjure in my linings of thin mucus, coughing disgusts and disgusts.
How do you define my motionless body now?©MVS
NaPoWriMo#23
Still Surviving
If you ask how am I today, I might tell you—
Darkness growling like the dead, a sad weed or a burned tree. My fingers ache each day
to feel the autumn on fire. Like mordacious nails, scratching the inside of my conjured mind. I know, you might feel nothing. Speechless?
Oh, pluck my skin, see the inner scratch, that is my scream.
Hidden in the ball of vexation, my lips drifting apart, to say thy name.
My pale eyeballs feeling the dead dreams. Oh, how dark, can you see?
I am a hideous soul of stale flesh and paralysed hymns, still surviving.
I am stale lotus blooming in the eyes of the razor-layered body.
©My Valiant Soul
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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