A poet’s origin

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.

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A blue attack

Blue, blue.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.

a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.

Paint it dead.

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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

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“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?

Under- observation

00ec3cbb5c58cafee58d7ceb324b45b2__011227876188205462096.jpgYesterday was the hardest if i must say
with amniotic sheets of lost air dripping my bare chest
and extraction of arms,
making my mouth dry, loss of homes could be seen.
Missing phone booth’s of lavender drops of deads,
and hunters, hunters, hunters,
yes, you have visited the I.C.U of my mouth
with palpitating halogens, demarcating a cleft of my chin-my knee
the knuckles bleed, towards the Polaris of numb soil,
if that’s a place, so, i am flowing.
i am flowing, doped and surreal
in hands of hours
clocks mocking my body, the six-inch pits of pits.
i sit and hum a vintage song here,
a dainty varicose nerve revolving now,
i am being operated in the midnight,
among the lamps, the shades, the silhouette
i am being deluged in occurrences half meadow,
my home is the plain stench of the sun.
it sits somewhere inside my hair, city of maps.
it’s late and i am under-observation still.


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.

distortion in mirror

i can’t mend things perfectly
like a soothsayer in my vagina
asking to rise- a phoenix of morality
but i cant do a thing flawlessly you see-
i have a thing forsaken to blend
with another skin of my body,
cerulean dreams of raisins and chestnut
i am black
i am broken,
pieces jittered in a jigsaw game

so i can’t cook food for you,
neither i can wash sublime clothes,
naked your soul-let it be ah!
my fingers are flaky,
monsoon in one part of the world-
unrest in a soliloquy of dreams,
yes i bleed while sleeping, morose cryptic ways
yes, i am numb,
sour apple jam to lick and throw.
I am all of that,
imperfections,
like a lotus in the salina.

Skin is music
skin is lyrical,
regenerating faces of loss
and i cling to it till
i drop my ashes to rest.

©Image and words of MVS