Recent Trends

Three Children and Wagon c. 1930s #history             WOW the first sweet picture I have seen with Black and White children.

Some people I see these days are like
broken paragraphs of my poetry
with a missing meter and inconsistent gravity
Detonation of disgust pits and addition of volatile
vodka stammers my insipid vision.
Half moon, half-blood, half mouth covered,
like a decomposition of the great Odyssey.
Some people these days are like
Vintage tributes( but unfamiliar, surreptitious).
With a bumblebee of summery sky,
they bite your pure coltish recently built home
Some people these days exists like this
till they tangle your knots into miseries.

-My valiant soul

image courtesy- Pinterest



the view from underneith a tree - the sun shining through the leaves,  shadows falling while lost in thought

Aberrant words on typewriter,
Untamed lyrics floating on my coaxed eyes
Longitudinal waves coincide here, an apparatus of dust
Shaken dreams, like a mirage of ghost
Bisect and dilute your reality into my wine.
Speak rhythm.
spill your black cuts onto my yearning lips
Screech the thunders underneath,
shout and scream, kiss the scream

Words often pinch naked souls.
salt and pepper, tobacco and vapour
Twinings of butter pokes the stratospheric coherence,
Something appears blue, something still a clue.
Beneath the sound of every clap exists a hand
few are coloured while the others are lost,
Turquoise water, hazel Earth
preach me the alien tales of your body,
make me rain
make me rhyme
make me discovered.

©My Valiant Soul


Indian beauty

How many cuts does it take for a tree to heal?
Beneath the dark trunk of the Cedar tree,
memories and lives are buried
Above that same tree, premonitions of death and twitches exist
Symphony along with words is music like soft poppies
dancing in circles on my bulky breasts, (dripping sound of sweat, wax)

Your lie was my favourite perfume,
I wore that inside my body, like branches opening up, one by one
My mouth is full of water and dirt.
You are standing like a white faded star
full of thunderbolts, recumbent beds of black horizon
sticking to my tender green veins,
Between blank spaces and unsaid words, you existed like a stained-cellar
Bruised telephones, crooked chains of hope
Aligned perfectly under your dark skin,
the bites of ant wakes me up from a deep slumber,
Entwined bones crackles like spider’s great piece of architect
This is when I see, end of seasons
end of river flow, end of unseen Unicorns.

©My Valiant Soul


Alcohol on my newly-born skin,
Do you see the patterns and the checks, the spotted wings?
I lick this ferocious almond scales on my skin, counting the pores
And I measure the breadth and length, obtaining details of details.

The oak tree knows the dents and paints
in the surreal landscape, where people romance
The lavender fields twist in its imperfection,
it sees black, grey, black, grey.

We travel and remorse like a soaked cotton ball in hallucinations,
We learn and emancipate, we gulp metamorphosis
and stack our bodies with memories, rub eyelids to breathe.
We survive and smoke, smoke till the moon spits anger, guilt to our innocence if any.
We are a floating wax of titanium spirits yet we fear cravings. Solivagant in dreams.

I suck the sand, the colourful dust and lips of my lover
I suck the galaxy of you and me.
I know, this arithmetic of us and time. We will evolve too.

©My Valiant Soul

The Final Exit

The day I shed my skin,
what will it be named and scored
The table of mahogany, the scent of yellow stained old papers
the blanket now white would be turned crisp golden
Mosaic moments Transparent fragrance Cold evenings

With time as a poking device on my cheekbones
I would shed some pieces of satiation, hunger
on the nape of my thin neck,
Screams, lipid screams and tongues of unborn voices.

Knives as powerful as life,
will slap me with cuts and honesty
Stating the end of pavements, the end of seashore walks
Strangulating noises will go missing in my head,
That writer’s block will be missed as colossal as a thunder.
dropping sounds of Sonnets. Wheels of bleeding pale ink gushing my veins.

Thirst of a parched desert, Oval eyes seeping thrush blue waters.

I will be ashes and the rest will be an Ode
With sagging back, my lips will shout “POETRY”
Emulating peachy air of life- death
I will be a memoir and a tribute
I will be someone or something, in circles and loops.
The day I shed my skin.



image- self

The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

The Cleansing Ritual


Gertrude Hoffman by Frank Bangs, 1917.


A process that disintegrates my coral stomach system,

With an arrow of titanium and spits of black

I prefer cleaning your insane, archaic touch that made me dark

The splashes of oval bowls of coughs and stigma

That stick to my tongue, my very pink tongue

Coughs and coughs till you understand this cleansing

And the thought process merges with your berserk piquant

Barbaric iris of the eye

Oh, you plunged the cactus and the roses all at once

Into my fingernails, into my saliva

I spit and spit and spit

This cleansing is a seduction of rituals

It takes time and then the skin is immaculate and cellophane clear

I take iterative baths on Mondays and Sundays

Hot water gargles cleanses my gums and tongue once more

For you clicked mouths to my book of statues and clock bell

I rub my painted matt nails,

I rub my Skull,

I rub this proliferating blood vessel dipped in your memoir

Rub, rub, rub

Ah, eh,

I  am a puddle now,

A flush of an Orchid tint.

Tilting in my own dirt

Defending my own soaked raisin body.

Twines and wires of your smooth photos

still can be traced inside my jigsaw heartbeats

one by one, somewhere.





People are like stagnate rubber elasticity

with structures clinging our forehead, sweating cold sweat

Impulsive, off-hand contusions of smiles

Like eruption of S W O L L E N E A R L O B E S

A segment of Paraffin wax coating the lights on my ceiling

Mourning and screaming( inaudible noises, inaudible voices)

My windows ache the heartbreak and the candle refuses to lit the other twin

People will cleave to the formation of inheritance: soil

They are always temporary, they shall leave you like the parallax of a stigma.

®My Valiant Soul

That Silence

I am walking on my own laced path

with frills and throbbing water

Discern the reality, Observe.

Titanium clocks strike the moment of truth

I am as soft as the morning baked bread,

Eyes peeping into your glass carved twists,

Sonder. Hallucination. Expectation. Ashes.

Death shall come eventually,

choking your doors and my windows

What does human fight for, if not humanity?

Coffins: decorated and flowered

I speak veracious lights of thorns,

Concave, convex

Puddle. Soil. Palpitations.


© My Valiant Soul



Teenagers in the 1950's much more elegant than teenagers now...
Circulation of stars was more familiar during
those sincere days when our bodies felt the lust,
the smitten rose kiss, the dandelion slaps
on our naked, yellow tongues.
Telephones were intriguing, for addiction kills.
Fingernails did not chap, broken things did mend.
Inside the tubes of bars, ladies enjoyed
with a brew of solace and poised wise.
My teeth crack to see the irony today,
humanity dies, numbing the skies.
Sometimes when I walk on moist roads,
The oak and the cactus pigments my impeccable skin,
slapping mud onto my thighs, making me realise a sigh!
For life's revenge is time,
And nothing binds the state of time.

My latest work published on Duane's Poetree.
-My Valiant Soul