Bare skins electromagnetic cheeks- ripples through air, soil, air all one- all one mouth of untamed fizz. untamed vestibule---- singular space and singular loneliness. your skin is a fine example of my night time lullaby, crescent fall leaf's song, onto my nude lip. one by one- as I call your name, I sing a choir and stand in the experimental splash of colours. I think of your mundane time, solid blue eye- shared collectiveness. shared solitude. Night- my sodden muse. Outside the window, I think of your sniff of your favourite sun touched hand, this space, a white pool of madness, this is the geometry we stich together, air in hurdled spaces.
the poppies won't die tonight I sense the drama through the bleeding faces again the parched vase of you and me the horizon of us- a hallowing question to that equation the fields seem opaque, dreary, with white sunflowers I run and burn to sniff your presence to sniff the existence the love equation to the sky and to things beyond my feet seem to be the carrier of our love poems, enthralled and quiet almost like a woman lost in translation Chips in frost. cold barren as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge the love rises and sinks and stinks, it breaks and fills the spaces with things so small almost like a hurricane, moths fluttering, there is no place left to make love- not between such damp sheets, at least.
But this sorrow never ends.
The tongue that runs cold
due to platonic threads of sins and cold meadows
the ache is blooming each day
beneath the blue unfolded eyes
the colour green- now a tone of burning bodies
this is my survival song, you see
with lines cryptic sunset on my lap
the night never fades away
the soil enriched with a glint of my water
my heavy overwhelming collapsing lungs.
this poem shall not soothe you-
instead would ask you to hunt something more
some more of air, water, sun , fire.
in your neighborhood
about the fallen leaves.
about things so unpleasant
you would not otherwise want to know.
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Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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The shades of skin- glowing like April mornings
a soft warm tone of Gulmohar tree upon my eyelids-
a doorway to oceans, two pebble eyes
Open in the open sky
This tree a meteor of clouds to my mind
to remind me of Earth, soil and home.
Gulmohar tree- pockets of cellophane wrapped on its bark
to bloom something more
tender, quiet roar of women.
I see leaves, rustling
with leeks and violet rays uttering a dialogue of beauty
of dark violet raisin pressed between my palms,
This tree has me.
As a whole another Goddess
As a whole another memory.
Gulmohar- your orange red hair blooming backwards
As if life slips from you easily,
So softly as a lover's touch.
You have a staircase
full of outgrown desires
You leave it and let it slip
through tunnels of gargantuan clot.
You speak and yet you look quiet.
Sharp, eccentric noise of fallen leaves.
Gulmohar- Hindi name for ' Delonix regia' tree.
Prompt- Forgotten Technology
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.
NaPoWriMo#30, prompt- A minimalistic poem
what is that throbbing between my cheeks?
a poetry fallen so perfectly.
a hue of colors.
Quiet, quiet, quiet,
it delivers spring and autumn,
a convex point of life and death,
slipping between my things now.
listen to it,
a wound of loss.
a gratitude of survival,
it’s the conversation happening between poetry and my nude body.
A life of ink stained walls,
residing, dying along with my eyelids.
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NaPoWriMo #22 ekphrastic poem
And I stood there,
in the aisle of chipped yellow walls
rummaging through my thick skin,
about the last night.
the light of lovemaking,
the night of kisses and cigars,
how soft your body felt,
topaz like sunshine caressing my neck,
long afternoons of summer drinks and clouds tearing away,
something hung from the lampshades of my garden,
a memory, a perspiring flower of nostalgia.
I often walked like planets dancing on the earth,
thinking about you and your scars,
your shaded memory of vignette touch.
Everything is a dead-end, an endgame.
I always waited for you,
counting your time on my twenty fingers.
Envelopes of sequined eye gazing your arrival,
it happened in winters,
it happened in summers,
it happened again and again.
a chiseled knot of survival.
And now, I am done.
My body sweats like your skin did once,
chipping the bedsheets of nostalgia
Often I eat my own mind full of you,
trying to stick a mannequin inside my pharynx.
No, I do not wither away,
I am not a sunflower dying,
Ephemeral nights talk to me in a decent language,
slipping a thought of voice hidden somewhere.
You do not still evaporate from my orange lit mind,
you burn there, a lamp in a swamp,
feeding onto my naval of thousand skies.
I watch you there each day,
I do not speak.
I do not speak.
I sit and count you melting.
NaPoWriMo# 11 Point of origin
It began under the chalice of my mother’s yellow palm.
Point of absolute silence. Her womb carried me like lotus full of vignette scars.
There was a tingling whiff on my small eyes. I was born amidst the petals of soft kisses, soft scars.
A concave chin of mole and anxiety dripped. I had no mouth. My mouth got submerged somewhere in the lost voices. I grew later on like a cleaved peanut.
The rain entered my eye like a century of heavy screams. At times, I was golden, an arched brow of perfection.
I felt my body scattering to the noise of wind. My adulthood held my fingers.
Boys spewing an eclipse onto my face. The winds grew out of my stomach. I vomited like a twig curling and stretching to escape something.
The quiet pulse of white corona silenced my anxiety. I pondered on this reality now how to walk, how to sit, hot to twitch and ache.
An illusion of white farm often blinded me. Shook me.
I evolved like the sun swivelling the painted sky.
Murmuration of thin sheets of god like structure telling me to expand more and more. I became elastic. Sponges of famous time.
I watch those bird now, sitting in my balcony, those fuchsia music they make, it completes my broken system. That orange sky embossing my chest each day.
That open vacant air.
I watch patiently Himalayan snowflakes filling my empty cheekbones. The whirlpool of trees and the fruit they drop. It smoothens my eye for life.
A poet who stood in front of this eternity.
Ingesting walks of thousand of suns and moons.
Secured, the stretch mark of life is a beautiful thing
running through my rainbow body.
Whirl like topaz,
hear exhaustive voices, all like a mother-daughter relation.
Watch a point of Stagnation. Reverberation. Too much cold.
and carry the footsteps behind,
live, live like a flower on a naked body.
There are no cloying questions of life.
You will fail if you swallow life.
Don’t fidget about the atmosphere.
Observe these crazy annoying things in your mind.
Lillies blooming and dying.
Things as soft as a petunia.
Things are as dark as my mind.
Let them slip, oiled and kneaded
into the stack of insomnia and other wild things.
Do not think.
Conjunction of mind is a beautiful process.
So let it be.
Speed creating a sliced illusion,
you cant’ defy filthy chipped minds and nails.
Let the process of leaking begin.
Watch it once again.
How your body floats, finger evaporates up in the sky.
That glorious sky, now.
Watch it fall again.
Things that make you full.
Rains, flowers, mushrooms
bouncing like peals of laughter of unborn.
hear it… hear it again.
Let things crack in your small aperture.
A mesh of poetry ascends in my scalp of lights
the place punctured by your visits often,
in my nocturnal nights of anxiety and suicides.
You step on to my body, peeling layers
of SCARS\ and you watched POETRY\
C A S C A D I N G
in molten, mountain flush of hours.
I am not dead if that’s what you mean—
There are splinters of time and flower
the raw ageless faces of skin,
goblet eye of evil-
here moon meets sun,
and earth meets my soul
it’s a travesty of you and me
rather than what you did to me.
I have seen the postcards of vintage ink
our lotus bodies sinking like air,
tropical destinations, with kisses side by side
I ate your nails, your fingers, your dirt
defying existence of deads & deads.
Now, my finger bleeds fungus,
crochet of inhuman trepidations.
I still hang you in my mirrors
behind my bed, behind my eyelids.
I still see your insanity
C A S C A D I N G
©MVS – NAPOWRIMO#19
I could dissolve and dismantle both in your arms. Your concave dripping horizon. Here, sweet nectars of a word, alliteration efflorescences. Poultice killing ant-eaten wound. I put my oblong waist inside your palms to catch the last nights fits and sins, sinister. You breathe effortlessly, like a paper chewing the drops of rain, steadily and I watch you smoking naked. I shrink, cinnamon fingers dipped in writing as I paint you in my slivers of lost chills. I see you marking my territory, with hazelnuts and pepper, cracking one by one. You announce me your wild bitch.The galaxy ruptures between your words and my forehead mole. We are all sinners.
I am awake, in the cauldrons of your magic that rubs my backbone, similar to the mountain ranges romancing with the sunshine. The spikes and fumes drove me madcap when my arm flew in the vapid motionless air. It was your A B S E N C E. The air balmy and dead. I roamed naked and baked naked. with my face sagging beyond the levels of my bosom. It was Saturday and your A B S E N C E.
And, it is a fixation now. Crystal studded your eyes with my silhouette, marrying my body from that broken pale toe to my hair. I circle and hover my dandelion legs to sense the reality, the sun-baked air filled with our fabled romance and memories. The room is a temple and this is the reality.
image and words©MVS- Something new that I tried!
You would bleed mentally, axis by axis to know my aching cheeks and lips. they do not flutter, engulfed in smokes my mouth, volatile and dark i am a pattern of transition disgusted each day, separation of tongues divides these breasts once supple, i am a sliced burning moon only diced further, till i dismantle my nerves. I will die a walnut death— with cracks and dust flooding my brain.
P.S-I did not take care of punctuations, deliberately because i was too lazy to do it. And i do not care!
Cease and breathe
the essence dripping, red like bird’s paw
You are the spot, crooked and tangerine
So how do you mark your sins?
Cease and count your curves,
red, pink and blues
your honey-dripping eyes,
facepalmed voice, mirrors bustling.
Stand stagnant, dip into memories
you are a flower seed
A banshee of ghosts quiver
inside your language of lust
inside your pain of more and more.
Cease and breathe,
with tip-toed mercury eclipse
kiss the moth
kiss and burp, your painted nails
red as nature’s love.
©image and words-MVS
“I HAVE LEARNED THAT I STILL HAVE A LOT TO LEARN”- MAYA ANGELOU
Cracking my pieces of delusions, with your fainted memory
like auburn leaves of sun rays,
with autumn diluted in veins of winters,
I wander and travel my electrolyte body,
time and again.
In the wilderness of my pituitary,
tongues of vague currents
erupting from my caged chest
a criss-cross of the eye, a criss-cross of mouth,
inexplicable waves thunder my jaws
and you reside in a big hollow of truth.
I am a summer weed,
waxed and shaved and fainted,
I swell and fell, again with a needle’s spine
to understand the resistance of lies,
My backbone twitches, my moth-shaped eye
I hallucinate, blinded, drugged, erected
and I swivel like a sickle of time.