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. dry tongues, neck choking. about things so unpleasant you would not otherwise want to know.
For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe
The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.
Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary chirpings and shadow.
Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.
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Thank you for such an overwhelming response for my new literary platform “Olive skins”. We have received some really great submissions and soon would be putting up on the site. Meanwhile, please visit the site, follow and check out the amazing poets we have for now. There is a lot more to come. Some real abstract art!
a bumblebee of your name comes
and sticks to my comatose body
strewing words of your lips,
porcelain slick drops of rain.
There I am, endlessly counting
the threads of time,
your body like chemicals rushing,
talking tounges, flesh sinking in nature.
something surreal we deliver to autumn,
a painted silhouette of love.
We gulp the harrowing throb of time,
inhaling the movements of our doused body,
in a swamp of emblematic sheets of symmetry.
We become a pattern, a floral one,
this is how i take you,
Afternoon red sun.
i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.
I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming. Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.
I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.
i am made of paper lines,
bisecting and colliding like a scavenger
Pieces of fire fill my mouth,
my mouth of caves and thunder.
unabashedly walking like circles of planes,
fixed dots often scamper my periphery,
holding the deluge of love
holding a river of memories.
Everything swallows itself-
time / people / deaths / despair
mahogany rusty table sinks
and bees flutter like irreplaceable.
My mind delivers sketches of horror
a ghost-like face
hopping city by city
man by man,
melting into a paradox
and harvesting a dilemma.
A chain of imprints.
In a circle full of moisture and baked apple pie’s, I crave and hold the periphery of Words like a sullen extension of truth. A point of solitude. I rub my skin to find the unsaid, undiscovered words, I rub my iris, my white thighs like a fiction produced by swallowing catharsis.
Discover. Run. Run in your stockings. Run in your shoes. Find the haze. Catch the molecules. Choke on the existence of W O R D S. Seduction. Dedication. Sanctification. I don’t want to be alive, for I am soiled and drunk. I am married to the drops of inebriation of pale figure.
Drop by drop I bleed poetry and imbricate the words on my yellow walls, on the roofs of my cracking teeth. Bites of cold potato shiver me, and hence a word like Intrigue sticks to my milky cleavage.
There lies churning noise of whispers now, a seepage. The thunders on the hills and the thunders of my words are the same. Yes, I OWN M Y W O R D S, clinging its petals to my naked waist and there is an Equilibrium.