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image credits- Google
image credits- Google

Fill the cacophonous rhythm of my mirrored-eye
with the cosmos and nightlight
entwined with grapevine of smiles,
A complexion of you, a shadow.
The craters enjoy the stratospheric
reds, greens, million of boomings.
I worship, with visual feathers,
burgeon smells, intoxication.
The deep smell of my pores
pronounce your name,
multiplying in the furtive eminence.
Then, the thunders dance
smearing lipstick of love,
coughing the dirt of abstruse corners
conquering the walls of illusion.

©My Valiant Soul


A Madhouse

The sound of water almost uncanny,
 A plastic bag bloats and floats
 like a memory of thoughts
 piled and halved beneath,
 my sagging skin of skins.
 The room is a liquid gel
 with my thoughts arrested,
 sleek and colourful.

Water Ripples
 my thoughts bifurcate further
 With tunes of melancholy
 and cascading mystical languages.
 It's supernatural.
 To observe the stagnant darkness
 with my crisp white eyes
 A twig eating another twig.

I sit and scream
 in the slivers of time
 piercing through this vacuum body,
 I hear rumbling of sky
 detonating my body vapours
 I nourish the thoughts
 like a cotton swab
 softly, piling and weeding.
 It's almost ethereal.

Beyond Hope

The night knitted our bodies like lanterns lit
with navy-blue aromas,
with currents storming
with sands under my body of hope,
with utopia and songs messed up in my head.
You wrapped my raisin skin,
performed colourful themes
like an Orion singing,
poetry dancing.

The night stimulated
the thunderstorms,
with Petrichor,
dripping from my tongue
With sunflowers melting
on our wax bodies
And the texture changing,
Earthquakes happening.

I grew a day older that day,
to see your landscapes and pyramids
sulking on my lips
sulking in my eyes,
A destiny.
You bit my neck that night
and you saw your name imbued
in frames and pieces
like a soft cloth residing
under my moonlit blood
You knew that day, we shared something more
beyond the stars.
Like Spring approaching.



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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

Observe and Proceed

Observe and stagnate the cuts on my eyelid
or the shaking body
Pretend that love-making, a part of the moon
In the windowsill, in the corners of the ebb

Pour your heaviness on my bosom at rest
where the hummingbird knit its nest
Slice and colour your hands
Honey-suckle your moist tongue,
clocks kissing clocks
Mysterious church bells, hush.

Observe and stagnate my white blood
whisper your spring,
thunderstorms into my belly,
carve it into a sweet meadow,
something like soft and crisp,
Hanging bulbs, lotus, potion, lotion.
clean and holy.
Blend your colour, smell
and scratch my bones.
Observe and Rest now.


As I Pray

Vintage photo

Resolute flames of candle burn on my windowsill

catching your white still fierce memory laughing in the atmosphere,

Tonight, I rebuke the ashes and the time of Thar

to halt, a clock eating another clock somewhere

If I slit tomatoes with you, you shall give me memories and formations.

For you create footsteps and geometry,

Carrying your dainty artistic eyes in the paintings of my body

I replicate you, I replicate your duties, Mother

And I learn the process of Catharsis from your bellybutton

I sew your words to my hairdo, swaying

singing your touch around,

And I pray and pray

like rainbows touching a slice of paradise.

For, I shall always be You.

P.S – To my everything, my Mother.


The Ritual.

Image result for casais vintage

Darling, my lips measure your spaces and wounds
with the thumb, I knit seismic waves on your back
Paradises stitching, lands coinciding inside
Like a wildflower, I bloom here.
Soils: A bark of memories, red and black.
I travel beneath the surfaces and measure
the cleaving knots, dome-shaped illusions.

Light strikes the stardust and I am a Mirror again
Foretelling your miseries
Holding the icicles of stories on my palms,
I have a newborn skin tonight,
with things to clean
with love as sweet medicine
with White curtains
Sun-kissed air, I am a falling bridge
Having a heart as your canvas.
Flickering. Motionless. oh, Darling.


The Patterns and Folds


These lines, mahogany smell

Orchid base— prediction,flavour.

A loose arm of sky swings

inside my bowl of emptiness.

The colours dim and the henna evaporates

It criss crosses my legs and eats up my entire body

A parasite. A swollen body.

I walk in the room and the razor cuts sharpen

Folds and pattern twists the softness

and corrodes the dewiness.

A slice of Death iterates here,

Something still at pause ( no gerund, no punctuation)

I think again

about this life,

I walk again

in the pits of life.

I am a liquid naphthalene ball.

Round and white. Evaporating each day.

thriving from square to square.