On Distress

Empathy. Discorded vermillion loops of human emotions. One must know the end of attachments. The lasting effect of expressions. But do they ever end? The language and syntax between the hurt and the healer? The strange connections of despair souls and longing eyes- the connectivity. Sadness is in unity. It clings to a verbose effigy, below the torrential glow of your elbow. We think we have time? But do we? We think we will be happy? But are we? The pain demands empathy and unity in sadness- a collectve circle of pungent healing. Longings are vapourized flowers. They stench and bloom bothways.

Longings are sadness- a temporary floral cloth that covers your nude body so that the body isn’t nude to anyone else. But one knows. Polythene eyebrows. Fermented cheeks. Eyes- swelled up. So we tend to connect- share- heal and proclaim our healing is in sharing.

Sonograms.

Clueless black itch
pendulum songs.
Scrapping against the mud-
the noises of ‘what if’..
and so much more.

The mind of a poet is that of a delirious day dreamer- wobbly feet and scrapped tongue.

My spleen is swollen- it does not weep further
but my hand does- they produce movements,
curvature( black & blue)

We poet are fearless rock.
We swim through mountains and remain hurt always.
We are imaginary songs- figurative drawings.

The lovemaking

The hem of my body is paper

and my tongue- the silk threads of ice cubes

The night spreads its monotonous tone under my moan

the voices that erupts my chest often,

about your skin:

about your name:

the existence of the Sun inside your wounds,

the mouth opens and a soft touch sits inside

The touch is of your scarlet memories

the sea beneath a mountain.

Nothing remains to be said now.

The body demands a blindfold

a language beyond comprehension

it wishes to float

to tear itself apart

with veins that sing songs of Spring.

And here,

a thing blooms too.

A thing exists too.

And here,

madness is an unleashed song

on my forehead of desire

like eye of sin protruding from all the corners

soaked in a desperation

counting backwards the hiccups spend under the sheet.

People like light rays, leave.

People like light rays, leave- Inspired by Sylvia Plath

______________________

Between the ribs,

arched,

the glow disappears into a surreal thing.

A wavy black mirage appears on a crushed paper

/  the piquant distance now,

    Slipping between the cellulose air of void/

 a mayhem of loose threads,

a dawn kisses by a hurricane,

Will things occur in heart now?

Or will the sit and devour the morbid mind?

Copper fields,

of dust- laden mouths

filled with anger/ sins,

Oh humanity! The disavowal of sodden eyes,

almost each night, in darkness.

People like light rays, leave.

_________________________________

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