the only thing that matters

yes, its the drop of ink
on my mouth of hallucinations.
The pink, wet curvature of hope.
I am not always dark, for all you think so.
I often melt and float with a sestina on my hip.
A swollen ebb of amnesia and what not.

I am an empty room with a mahogany chair soaked in the sun.
I often swing like neem trees.
Those are the things, blue as ink and sturdy as ivory.
And i knit such dreams into my belly button.
Generating brick buildings on soft petals.

I don’t have much to say on these days.
I am often lonely in silence too.
Those things spread their luscious arms.
Its eternal, still body.

A capsule with powders of night secrets.
for those are the things i carry at my spine and lungs.
things that really matters.
Things that i pray of distilled white.


 

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a little love

i do not say i want your metaphors all the time. I need your bowl of reflections, white and pure. Thick fog running through my backbones, i am tired of feeling this red colour inside my body. Dilute it, maybe?Splash a mute word, spreading like a fungus, onto my body. You see, i don’t want wildflowers, today. I am insane, and i want your insane, dark, rough love. I have nothing else to hide beneath.i can slice unhappy moon, anthills stretching this cold evening.

can you rustle, beneath the cold sheets of chills? And enunciate the dimensions of love, rainbows for me in an oblivious way? Sequins of art-work. I know your ways are more like a cobweb. A fire extinguisher, is all i wish. something that cures the sore tickle of my back, my bosom and mouth.

i don’t want  berry nights from you, i want your white shirt, to cling. I have been doing that and i shall do it. I want it to hold on like a brush on a canvas, sliding a blurb of emotion. Like a bulge on my skin towards more of left. Crimson skies full of earth.

I want that little love, that little home.



P.S -for a change I have written a romantic piece, after a hiatus now. (to my love)

windows and mirrors

Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.

This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.

Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.

Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.


Things I like to do

Related image

“this is the easy time, there is nothing doing”- Sylvia Plath

Cherries and quieter moments
basking in the volatile spur of the moment
and there I sit and gulp your madness
your cold, hot waxy madness.
I wonder, how you eat my skin in the noon,
with a cheek of sublime apple,
water ripple flushing my eye.

winters are blankets of love and pain.
you sink like a twig in a swamp,
and you still want to clasp the moon.
My nostrils cold,
with you in it,
a sleepless satire of pale face.

I sit, a wall of clock eating my claw,
my fist aching,
counting the floating moment of time,
A catharsis of breeze often romances with my bosom
telling me talks of air, crisp and erratic.
And there, I am lost, empty, earthed like air.

My recent work published here- my words.

And yeah once again I am all about SP! And where are my old WP writers?

the rise and fall

i guess, at times i walk on the waters,
the ebb, a reminder of my narrow chin.
i have a thing for kissing life.
and i do it precisely well.
i kiss and drink the sweetness,
the stars and the sound of the bells.
i metamorph into a syllabus of a veritable smirk.

dreams hold my mouth and put me back to sleep until i am awake like colours,
vibrant and throbbing a dark spot.

at times, i become seasons,
my body, a criss-cross of lanterns.
it’s small and beautiful.
And that’s how i inhale smoke,
my voice tore away like sunsets falling into the rivers.
streams of gushing ripples on my cheeks.

there was a time once,
when poetry was all Mediterranean Sea to me,
with potholes and hammers,
squirming noises of silence.

The semesters of trimmed life makes me a moon,
a person in illusion,
a mirage rising inside the languid skin.

all that is you

you have a burning orange taste
like the room lit with forest.
dark and sequin patterns of lust.

my darling,
i look at you and i dissolve,
 a cape of Ganges.
From your cheeks,
i sip dews of dusk.

and i worship you like a dreamcatcher,
praying for your lucid footsteps,
A soft murmur inside a winter room.
cigarette lips and pink nails.

in your shadow of Auburn smoke,
lips wet like a half-baked moon.
let me trace your lavender skin,
a filament of my springs.

Living with poetry

 

Each day i grow poetry out of my stillborn toes
where words drip honey, moisture and powder to evolve,
Words.   They rotate inside my iris, whirlpooling like catharsis.
Inch by inch, shifting like the moon,
embossing the sky, they perch on orchids,
to suck nectar,
to suck poetry from there.

And I see and grow outnumbered limbs all over my body.
The facets from my skin leak poetry as a seduction,
Romancing to ink, stains and silhouettes,
Life’s favourite romance is with poetry.
I have prolonged life maybe
and words are a lengthy delusion,
Quieter yet stronger.

I lit a forest inside my body.

Autumn returns

corina was here :)
Autumn reminds me of things untouched,

glass window, stains on the broken leaves,

cup and cigars, molasses of thunder

I bend and whiff the rosemary bowl of smells,

incessant yearning smell of dear darling

a voice of hypnotic fluid, lush green in my blood

Chewing lemon grass like an ant of wisdom,

i pick and collect theories of autumn love,

(i have been dying already autumn summons now)

People say a thing is beautiful, if loved

and so i ingest this orange season of cruise and clumps,

like a cluttered bun- knot,

my injured knee pain.

A canticle to slip in my dreams,

slender like the shape of my body.

last verse

Each day is a delusion,
my words and poem a levitating hue of cry.
The modal of life explained in a Polaroid,
i might die writing this last piece,
softly,                like autumn i shall moult,
into a panorama of white skin
hanging loose, pale parchment paper.

a breathless wildflower of atoms falling.
a cold sliver slap of time,
i sense darkness, in a pool of parched lips,
eyes shut, heart shut
limbs shut, mind shut.

and there i am
a wallowing question of an existence,
kneading a rope of knot
Once again, i walk in portions,
an adamant sustenance of life..

when humans stink

/

 

My voice is a purgatory lie.
a solemn inhuman thread of existence,
the voice of this teeth crackling,
fingers going numb during cold shaky nights.
moist, stinking, moist language of nights.

A honeysuckle stung of a tear marking my white body,
flowerless, wavelengths of blurred nights again and again
you come and sit inside my skull,
you will perhaps have boneless maps of jitters.
And humans stink.
they stink like an abrupt old fist.
Mouths of dry saliva. Hollow and hopeless.
A frenzied attack of humans is like the orange peel.
you wish to unveil the skin,
it pokes your eye like a stencil.

And my mind talks to my heart,
in endearment still unknown
of soiled tattered sheets of oblivion.