I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.
At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.
Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.
Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.
What about your muse?
Another day has gone.
I sit and pray like a maniac,
with a white smile, you can count on.
I prepare breakfast and prepare a story to tell.
I prepare so many wild things often.
Bricks on bricks, and soft wool of tales.
You left like a reptile in a hibernation.
with floors slipping beneath my china body.
i pray and pray. That’s what i know the best.
I once prayed during my abortion,
beating the sweats and my blood.
my blood was thick as a waxed cloud.
Oh, how i wish you stayed!
What is that flows and flows behind my ears?
A life. A full stop. An endless conversation with life.
Over the years I have developed a harpoon of olive skins.
Skins that are cleaved too.
They haunt me in moments of despair.
They haunt me in these bright shiny days.
And here I am sitting, sunbathed, moth running on this fungus swiveled hands.
Eating and flapping my heavy bosom.
It speaks beautiful anatomy to me.
Oh yes, it does create a map on my toes,
a map on my mind.
Here I traverse, sideways like a waterfall. A soft and a quiet one.
I am not in a sad mood today!
Autumn is my favorite season.
It speaks only the truth, the brown fallen truth.
And I swallow it like a sincere patient, popping a pill to be alright.
“this is the easy time, there is nothing doing”- Sylvia Plath
Cherries and quieter moments
basking in the volatile spur of the moment
and there I sit and gulp your madness
your cold, hot waxy madness.
I wonder, how you eat my skin in the noon,
with a cheek of sublime apple,
water ripple flushing my eye.
winters are blankets of love and pain.
you sink like a twig in a swamp,
and you still want to clasp the moon.
My nostrils cold,
with you in it,
a sleepless satire of pale face.
I sit, a wall of clock eating my claw,
my fist aching,
counting the floating moment of time,
A catharsis of breeze often romances with my bosom
telling me talks of air, crisp and erratic.
And there, I am lost, empty, earthed like air.
My recent work published here- my words.
And yeah once again I am all about SP! And where are my old WP writers?
There is color alchemy.
yellow, yellow pavements calling me to collapse.
And there is a bowl, I see reflection, ripples, colors again.
some old memoirs.
a hush and a loud roar.
The wind occupies the ecosystem,
The shapes of water signs as if dancing swiftly.
The sensuous textures I see in the waters.
Crystals, Fountains and a sky full of mirrors.
I bend to pray, to touch it,
that moist lacking words I see,
fluttering kiss of my bare skin,
I see myself like a lantern these days,
a conversation lost and preserved.
There is a formation of orchid on my backbone,
a deep, magenta picture of weeds too.
A color array clinging. I am maybe a star for today.
There is this whole universe wrapping my body today.
A smell of yearning.
this moon does to me what spring does to me.
the serendipity of lost lovers,
aching inside a tubewell of noises.
numb eyes, pink lips.
a lover’s greet.
beneath the shadow of the piroutte moon,
something surreal occurs,
a mother runs, runs like a fever.
a wife declutters her soul.
a tongue becomes colorless.
and a circle of hiccups surrounds this moon,
a silk bathrobe, caressing against the collarbone.
it happens like dyslexia,
a galvanizing moment perhaps.
people swirl here as if they do not care.
a soft satin kiss
it happened before and it happened today,
i lay on the sides of my kitchen sink
thinking the arrival and departure of my husband,
arrival of his velvet mouth that utters a chain of lantern.
he is adorable, like the moon.
he has his own mood, often.
the purgatory of life resides in this cobweb.
things ascend and descend in a ghoulish manner.
a blue-knitted shawl on the cold chest.
things around me pamper me,
this lone time also pampers me,
i walk and create art in the garden,
in am vacant – small, terrace with broken chipped walls,
something happened there maybe.
a spectral wire of corrosive shade and memory.
a twitch that shakes me.
often i am speechless,
the kind of attack when your fingers
won’t fit in your mouth.
eyes shut and small.
that’s another kind of suicide.
mondays and Tuesdays are my favorites,
i watch my body decaying until Sunday comes,
and i am a piece of supine tied at the block of a tree.
so i am alive,
i cling to the nakedness of moment like a toddler to a mother.
the sky to apathetic rain,
the embalming breeze to the leaves…
something rhetoric and oblivious.
at the end of the day,
i weep, laugh, take pause, clap and sip it all.
my eye behaves in a torrential tobacco sniff.