“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.
i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum
i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.
thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.
The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.
and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.
Each day i grow poetry out of my stillborn toes
where words drip honey, moisture and powder to evolve,
Words. They rotate inside my iris, whirlpooling like catharsis.
Inch by inch, shifting like the moon,
embossing the sky, they perch on orchids,
to suck nectar,
to suck poetry from there.
And I see and grow outnumbered limbs all over my body.
The facets from my skin leak poetry as a seduction,
Romancing to ink, stains and silhouettes,
Life’s favourite romance is with poetry.
I have prolonged life maybe
and words are a lengthy delusion,
Quieter yet stronger.
Autumn reminds me of things untouched,
glass window, stains on the broken leaves,
cup and cigars, molasses of thunder
I bend and whiff the rosemary bowl of smells,
incessant yearning smell of dear darling
a voice of hypnotic fluid, lush green in my blood
Chewing lemon grass like an ant of wisdom,
i pick and collect theories of autumn love,
(i have been dying already autumn summons now)
People say a thing is beautiful, if loved
and so i ingest this orange season of cruise and clumps,
like a cluttered bun- knot,
my injured knee pain.
A canticle to slip in my dreams,
slender like the shape of my body.
i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.
I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming. Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.
I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.
A moment elongates itself like a thick sleet of froth
thin as a membrane often,
it’s a horrible need to ingest the petals
something that slits the skin and tongue,
watch the phantom of atmosphere,
how incorrigible swirl waft the cheekbones.
Often voices stuff my vacant rooms with leftover light.
Voices like “Oh you love”…voices with intense roots.
I retrace footsteps back in my lawn, trying to discover my untamed breaths,
trying to burn the unlit clump of log( wet and careless things are beautiful).
I often feel like a ghost, entrapped like a white air
tip-toeing in quiet hush old house.
I am broken. i am pale with an ever-growing quench of burning thighs.
I am what i am anyway. Lost. Amorphous. Melting.
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?
i am a hysteria of beauty and ugliness,
eloping like a gulf,
a street shop of diamonds, cheap and blemished.
It happens at a time,
I evolve and dupe into my billowing mirage,
eyes lost in a dyslexia of love,
something chuckles inside my flesh of concave mouth
a pink belonging to my entire body,
a paroxysm of a gasp of air running like a haze, in the eye.
I watch this mirror now, the crucifixion of love and melancholy
to my body and scars,
this water lilies emerging inside my teeth,
and i have a swollen left cheek, from the last night’s bite
and a swollen neck, scratching
words of murder,
if i am the saline waters, barefoot
with no signs of lotus.
flux the cactus outwards
stretching from your comatose body of air
Inwards and upwards, the abnormalities
with twigs of mahogany bleeding between your legs,
let it out, screeching your skull
till the brim splits and an adroit sleek barrier exist,
Your body, a stoic compressor
of thoughts and sighs
with longitudinal horizons.
Plain and sober.
Breathe and emancipate like a child with doll skin.
You will enter a circle, beneath your fingernails then,
a point of reverberation. Gulp the blank dot of this life.