poetry

Of Sickness

of moment so despair
a thing i learn about a crooked poetry
my face a sudden elastic string.

Of death
these moments stich a corollary upon my backbone,
stripes so painfully black.

an ache to put metaphors with,
Madness unleashed from the boundaries of my skull
red, uneven, scathed,

women in my room speak of pain more than the patients in the hospitals
a deep blue sapphire cotton pain
splitting throat.

The air wet and humid
of tears and sickness
a dead sky lies under my lids.

I remain quiet, numb, observing like a child.


 

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poetry

A Still Life

My last night’s ritual falls on this table
watching a landscape spread across, vivid blue with raw images
of skies, wrappers of sunsets.
life from life
splitting beneath the heaviness of that sky.

A shadow sits on the curtains,
carefully weeding out
like music
Observing the forms of love that occurs.
Cheeks of orange crepe, cracking
a voice so brave and young I could hear.

A bed with two chairs.
Watching things falling in a syntax
of a molted clay
shaped like rooms inside a room.

I am again pondering
over chilled cold nights
over topic about men & Gods
as the air slips through my lips.

The existence that lives outside the memory.

poetry

Empty Spaces

Empty spaces-
blank as a curve
blank as a quiet sky
blank as a hawk
blank a curvature on apex
blank as a haunted corridor.

Empty spaces-
blank as a fallen sky
blank as a single eye
blank as a numb wound.

Do you see such patterns of absolute pauses?
You are as blank as a naked word
baffled each day by air’s uncertainity.

poetry · prose

What we made out of Memories

Prompt- Forgotten Technology

Audrey Hepburn is my religion — negatives of Audrey Hepburn photographed by Mark...

This goes beyond the tampered noises that prevail today
silence ruffle under the sheets of abrupt behaviour.
If I talk,
let me talk to you about the mottled photos
of yesterday’s yellow sun
a wildflower blooming under my chin
spreading across the lunatic nights of hum
Death too had come on many occasions,
looking at your obscure spots in my album.
That did not stop there.
A ligament or two did rupture in the old records,
//Burning. Aching. Burning.//
The body became a range of toxins,
wild with a blue winged heavy eye.
These eyes would flip through rotten memories looking at the old telephones,
Looking at a thing dying so carelessly.
Death is an art- as I do not refuse the facts.
The days were simple on record players with my hesitation staying on top of it.
Loose wires of phones. Vintage blurred memories of hands and cupboards
Of lemons and the sniff of a heavy weighted lady
that filled my room
the time that taught of enormous voices revolving inside the gut.
Pain. A fancy circle of construction of mind.
I do not claim to sew the motion of consciousness here.
Take time to ingest a list of fury.
Screams through hard-boiled eggs and a toaster cracking between the unheard voices of the parents.
It stays in memory. Not in the old stained yellow book-shelves.
Few things travel through drama and enter into a raw state of reality.
A tapestry that hangs, looms in the gloomy corners of forlorn memories.

poetry

The Affair

Vintage Photo of a 1950s couple in the forest by a stream. See more vintage photos of couples in love at www.vintageinn.ca blog #1950s #love #valentinesday #vintagephotography #1950sfashion #couples
There isn’t a sight that does not make me think of you
of your auburn burning skin in the heat-
a poem so soft on your lips,
it almost is center of all light
I produce
an inflammable kiss
awake
with fumes coalescing into fumes of rainbows
The body rises from something so chalky beneath
an enormous restlessness
traversing nights and days

I wish to remember days like these
beneath my frolic skirt
above my trembling belly
I wish to swallow your blank stare
your stare that revolves like a tangerine sky
with leftover peels of my summer orange.

I wish to remember dry afternoons
with a song inserted in my mouth
a bee that rotates like a tulip
between our fingers entwined.
Like all things of love and soft music.

poetry

Desires

38 Sweet Snapshot Show How to Have Romantic Kisses on Valentine's Day ~ vintage everyday

 

Of lust I must speak to you.
This body glows like a river
only too thin to bend over you.

Acknowledge the minuteness spread onto my face
across the loose limbs that floats in the air.

Of beauty –
I come to you,
spreading a knob of orange garden
where the time collapse and stops for a moment.
This moment captures us,
to bind us for a sparkle of glory
Of Tongues and tongues
I dream of point of indulgence
A point that emerges from my bottom to your top-
Plants in the cold rain
like diluted streams of romance

You row in the nectar of my oozing moonflowers
Atop my bosom you sit like a wax
spreading an ensemble of winter dreams and summer breeze.

You do not stop there.
I announce carnivals in my womb.
It does not stop. It glows further.


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poetry

The Lovers

/ A R Y A / pinterest: @riddhisinghal6

Walls of the air do not crack
as there exist our stories lingering across the streets.
Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance
speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust
The brooding sniff of the moon
to sink between my large womb.
She often speaks to me of you.
Your abstract ways of unraveling things
behind the layers where mockery hides.
To pleat the abhorrence of life,
your bones are my memoir.
my spot of expanded prints & rainbows..
Make me bend and scream,
your coral colour creaks on my tongue.
To the tress, I wish to announce
a twig suddenly has fallen.

life · poetry

This Moment

 

I got Hipster

Inspired by- Eavan Boland

A balcony.
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.

a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.

Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,

things pause as the sun sets in.
This moment,
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.

A bizzare hustle,
Fruits ripening,
An old painting getting chipped.
This moment.


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poetry

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?

poetry

Hear it once again

 

Imagine me in your room,
the aerial space filled with the sniff of rosemary candles.
Imagine how I sit and lift up my chin to decode a language now,
A voice that breaks the linings of the wall.

When you look at me,
You see my words,
my eyes that unravel the thread of apple juice.
(Understand these lines again)
I am a voiceless creature to the nights that go mad running down the aestetic streets,
not to you.
Not anymore to you.
I saw my mother weep once. A veiled woman.
As i watched, I could see that weeping has no cadence.
This is what language did to us.
Maker of places, kitchen sinks,
empty hallways,
gadens, sea- breeze.
This is what happened since always.

The voice got tore away between the shades of sky.
The voice of not shouting, basically.
The voice wearing the colours that go with red hair.
The voice where the woman held it like an infant.
Absorbing everything, silently.

This is the hour that i love when everything goes off to rest,
the hour of darkness, the hour of metamorphosis,
of a change in the landscape without emphasis.
This is the women I adore,
a hot terrain of soft silk and milky dreams.

1:0’clock. This hour is a sin of raisin skies and doors creaking,
something erupts at this very moment.
Familar figures became curious shadows again.