A sinned anatomy

 

Legs, 1958 ~ vintage everyday

I am a sound today,
an inaudible gentle drop of a midsummer dream.
Look,
I have a scarred arm,
degenerated now,
An ear so small,
obnoxious ways of survival.
I evolve each day, still melting on toes.
Funeral baths peeling my cold skin.
There is abnormality happening on Thursdays,
and a prayer going on inside my head on Sundays.
I know too much on Mondays and
I become a sinner on Saturdays.

Look, I may slip monthly,
slipping almost like a surreal fall
with patches and band-aids sewed to the body.
I fail to be a silver moon
A hollow void that sits on my lap,
nonchalantly bleeding songs of despair.
I am all at once,
an elastic curve of black fragility.

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How do I smell poetry?

20 Quotes from Sylvia Plath

Step 1.

Enter a room full of dark metaphors,
Stir the analogy with the half baked synonyms trying to disturb your mind.
Stir further, this thought process so ablaze.
Wake up to small neutrons, amorphous floating protons,
Multiplying, quietly.

Step 2,
Unfurl your sins in each room.
Step by step, take a needle and start stitching your open wounds now.
A long stride of pulmonary sleep. Soak it and walk along with the process.
Ask questions to your mind and heart put together. And you are now in a maze.

step 3.
Overuse the electricity like a tether. Grab and chew the rim of power to grow like a diffused bulb. Follow the paths which never shook you, you shall never be lost now. You have landed now on the concave slippery object of your face. A soft daydream.
A mystic night. A lover’s touch.
You sit and see yourself here, like poetry melting nad sitting in your womb.
Here is home, now.
Here, you always can come back, now.

An ode to my mother

Hidden Mother Series: Laura Larson's Nineteenth-Century Photos | The New Republic

My mother has paper lips / beautiful, stale pages of love rubbing against each lip.
She sings a dream of a crochet bag, each night, the times when I am unwell.
My mother often dresses in saree that is obscure and restless,
a brown hem of her dress slightly caressing my face.
And I begin to decode her fears/ her prayers/ her clandestine sins.
She is a slime ball of crisp yellow frustration leaking.
A palindrome.
Oh, mother, you creature of a goddess!
Your feverish footstep of laid back dreams/ a word which you often can’t pronounce.
You are too strong and surreal to gulp,
with a staircase lost somewhere in your hair-bun,
you walk in your nylon ivory night dress,
fidgeting throughout the pathway.
You stumble and walk.
still, you walk, mama.
A birth giver to stars.
You own this starry night, behind the loop of your ear ring,
too small and fancy
voicemails lost in this sky so empty.
Your foot my home, mother.
My poem your sleep.


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My fist – a home of dreams

'MENORCA' - SPRING 2018 KINLY

This picture you see is a firework,
a shooter of transparent memories.
A vivid piece of artwork, fumbling across my face
with veins growing up in the sky
outwards and inwards
a low key noise/ stammering through the delicacy of time/
Isn’t it strange?
The oval diaphragm painted so calmly.
I see this pink sapphire picture
and I see my eyes there,
holding green, surreal dreams of a colorful palette
A quiet breeze of stars.
I see this starry studded picture now,
vehemently sipping bridge of cold laughter,
This is my evolution now,
trees beaming in a subservience forest.

Midsummer’s mad song

How many times do I need to die
to keep you awake?
A figure of wax evolves and quietly speaks your name to me.
Your tangerine lips,
a lump of sugar and clove
all dissolved in my ears.

What is your language of love?
You reach my body with chemicals gushing
until the body shatters beyond a dot of oblivion.
I part in five thousand ways,
so vivid and distinct,
A chalice of fiction and midsummer’s song.

Darling,
I breathe you like a ghost now.
With a thermometer put on my bosom
and eyes chanting your name forever.


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A poet too insane

How to Calm your Mind

A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.

I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
too thin,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.

Tara

Tara remembers her doings. The pale kitchen sink speaking of chipped dreams, tectonic thighs of fidgeting swamp. Her lipstick is all nude today. Nude as the man of her dreams, saliva draped carefully between the folds of her lips.

And her purse sliding between her perfect round bosom. She wears sunrise as her makeup, with gleaming colors of a portrait. A hue of morning yawn. Her methods are clairvoyant. She sweeps a floor, performing a geometry to meet her desires, back & forth.

A bowl full of summer rains. Tara is a madhouse, today. Her cotton saree slipping on the floor, almost swaying the mosaic squares of the floor. She runs like a fever in a house. Moist enough to hold and gulp. An insouciant flower of the Himalayas. She would shove all the flickering desires, like the peels of onion and garlic in the bin. Not giving care.

Tara goes off to another house now. Pinning and swirling her hair with a bobby pin once again and she sweeps the floor again. A house so porous. Almost like a slice of starlight.