A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.
I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.
I want to quieten my mind
and each day I would count ways to do that.
Popping pills backward / gazing at the starlight
until dawn slaps me all over again.
A memory of death fidgets with my tectonic body.
I become so slow.
slow like degrading with the earth.
I count ways to quiet my mind while writing this poem.
There is a drop of water on my palm which freezes my hand,
like a singular stem of the numb horizon.
Hush, hush, hush.
I see my reflections
dying in the soiled air that slips upon my lips.
Violet and brown.
A colourless dream often.
I want to rest quietly,
with no connections any more
I could stare a small spot on the ceiling
like a moth
trying to endure a lie.
My words are epileptic today
just like me, all wobbly.
I stand here in a sitting position like a lotus,
and my organs defy my breath.
This poem is a bizarre,
try not to comprehend anymore.
There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as d e a t h
you know you will ultimately sink.
You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?
A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.
For it has been corroded, now.
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!
Submission for Olive skins
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.
There, beyond the ripples of mouth,
lovers sits & communicate,
through the sprint in their lashes,
flutter of springs.
a translucent shadow defies time.
for that particular moment.
small things begin to dilate.
too much convulsions,
temperature drop, wrinkled grass land.
A grasshoper watches sky detonating.
laughters circulating the wobbly afternoon.
A visceral face expanding.
There are marks.
marks on the filtered earth,
A wasp of Lilith neck.
Lovers scamper across the evening sky,
floating through the oasis of skin,
flesh, promises, a picture to repeat the art.
the shapes that attach like clay.
Coconut water. A vintage period film.
Clouds that speak a simple language.
A symphony sitting behind my silhouette,
a whimper of art.
Circles of red tensions,
swinging to swing my hair hard.
A lipstick so dark,
my hands suffice the pain…
and the parched lips, bodies producing chemicals.
Fever in ropes of summer evenings.
You know how to feel it.
To drink it like a lemonade, sour/ therapeutic.
My life for you.
it begins as a full stop,
ends with a diagram of loss and repair.
My latest work published on Piker Press