A swallowed truth/lie

Piquant Ray’s
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?


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the-perceptions-of-life

the way i close my eyes is a seduction.
a clementine red prayer to my body,
with dark clouds. a sleepless child humming.
a black spot spinning in the sky, apparitions of liquid monotony.
it churns the limbs inside
with a mouth of lust.

there is a dark room of closed fists,
fists that shimmer red pain. Inside my mind of a blank page.
a white pure kiss hanging,
like a loop foreheads murmuring a word.

a seizure. a dream. I close my eyes, I see myself floating
alone in the lanes of words, a reverie of mists.
Flowers bloom inside my mouth. Knuckles of painted red nostrils.

This land is pious for I am unknown to myself.
i sneeze like a ghost
with my hands saying my uncanny dreams.
a concoction of love and death.
it’s here, speeding like a wasp.
we walk like ghosts,
sip and drink,
the arching thunders of time,
slipping softly.
hush and be quiet now. Be your own butterfly.


what remains- time kills

sediments of love and despair,
like a dose of a morbid orchid petal,
throbbing in my blue cheeks
my limbs are rooms, small pavements that you rock
small parts, dilating trembling stairs of life,
a star inside a boxed room of loneliness
revolving in the thicket sheets of air,
a haze and a backache.
a periphery of grapevines, strangling
telling me to be naked on the evil plates of loss.
i bite my lips.
i bite my lips.

my body is nothing but a voice of pain
shredding, autumn leaves
a loose fitted, transitory polar air,
cold, crisp and moist like
a surgeon bisecting my legs, my frozen tongue.
and i am nothing
only a figment of blurred smoke,
ashes like a solid piece of rope.


 

and. i. grew.

P I N T E R E S T // aubreeweaver

my dress is an Ocean of your orange skin,
the soft lullabies, tapping beneath the arms
joining cities of lust, a blue tip of tongue knowing
the pits of this coal lowlands,

it started with your wet tongue, caressing my lips
mouth like a band of tendons, tobacco burning in the palms.
your scripted hands, your oil dripping scripted hands,
they are imaginary lines in my mind.

thunder simmers in my skull, whitening the black
the deep-rooted balmy glass of kiss, stains and cigars.
Lemon and peeper sound, we sink in the moments of this.

and somehow you made me grow, preserving, pickling
beneath the dome heart of your nail,
I grew.
i grew like a sun.


p.s- please keep up with me even if I am unable to reply your comments as of now.

Under- observation

Yesterday 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.


motions of an eye

I wake up like a morose light, struggling to die again.
Like hurricane to lost voices, burning alongside with bare chest, bare hands.
cease and demarcating the thousands of muted language
gushing through my spines and eyes,
My widowed palms are oily, lavender diffuser emptied.
and i perch on the laps of a sleepless blue continent.
This sacred feeling is like a giant whale, eating me whole,
rubbing between its bleeding hands,
distort like a lake, a sky of colourless beams
and hearts set on fire.
I twist in my body more and more,
a little more, into this dreamless barrier of pause.
The spun of itch, the scars.
the flat rooted chest- all like a flower now,
blooming.
i flex my knuckles to count the bones, hallow sinking chunks of skin.
this pain is a flat horizon of a flower.


distortion in mirror

i can’t mend thing’s 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

a thousand reasons

between the lampshade of lips and my porcelain lips
 i carry your honeycombed shadow
 like a lust covered body, screaming in rose love
 i have a reason to lick your face,
 your breaths in ways flickering

Beneath the mole of my chin, a night rests
 it slithers a square black fit
 like an earthquake, an earthquake
 Metaphors of sun and moon lies
 in my womb,
 my place of sanity
 inside me choking with your love

a surreal slip of owls & hunters
 clambering unearthed lilies
 You are blue.
 You are grey.
 You are colourless.
 Mine.
 i have a reason or two to bite
 your pages, the books of love
 Phantom protrusion of amnesia.
 Pills of intoxication
 Bay of Bengal splashing my bosom
 drop by drop, with chills neurotic
 A wasp breaths and moans
 slitting a thread.
 I have my reasons, darling
 to love you.

Ambrosia twirls like a cocktail
 thick mouth swarming of dreams,
 filling the cracks,
 the walls, the ceilings, the mouth
 the feverish body.
 I have a thousand reasons darling
 to love you now.

Pointless air-i breathe

what if my entire body is stones and drugs
with a sound of silence
pieces missing, haywire mercury temperature
like a slurp, books in the air.
Breaking monotony, scratching my innermost thigh skin
and bleeding like the blood of sanguine valley.
How many steps do I have to perform?
To be lost.
to be a volatile air.
amorphous, porous
Trees of death define people and deeds
Horrors sit and immaculate in ounces of despair
spick and span, the atmosphere that I carry
or abrasive at times,
I do not know much.
The point is i am bleeding like a lotus in a sink.
and I need closure, sun in the fist controlling myself, sulking my aches.
The eyelids are swollen and broken
with scars running through the table and the wet floor
the point is I am lost and surreptitious
like a dried lemon-peel in the air, aerial.
aerial my body, aerial my legs, a cacophony of that.
The point is, I feel pointless at times, like the sip of wine.
I have visuals down my throat of sleepless nights,
potions and pills
and no face of roses in my garden, holes in the punctured air
i have it all in the box
down my body
down my abdomen
and still its all pointless.

_______________________________________

p.s-I am back with my thoughts. Yiee.

strips opened

i am a woman in a box of shackles and needles, forlorn words such like a bun/
I am old now like a violin of death, blood-soaked up till the cigarettes burn. It’s the womanhood kicking my belly again and again. Spewing moments of despair and solidarity.
I am alms and chains. Coagulation of breaths sinking and splitting, like seeds of walnut..if any.

A stark of pain, there is a pathway in my dining hall going dark in the morning, you should know. Things are occurring inside, with osmosis and hallucinations. Mad is this world if you call me that.
mad is you to break my knee, that night..concretes of lips and mascara.

I am as Old as an Oak, varicose tunnels flipping my body of sparks. I am electrocuted again and again and again. I still not budge and smudge. I am dying perhaps, these cold distilled evening nights hollows bleak
lips cracked..winter talks.

I am dying perhaps.