The sad picture-

It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.

We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.

The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.

Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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a/ Palette of cycle

Toscana 🍷

What becomes out of a light that perches on the shade?
A coma or a complete sentence?
Does a wound heal if exposd to a skin’s love?
What becomes of a translucent onion that can not be further minced?
A life comes with a moment of quietness through the lens of wet eye.
A doctor’s favourite fruit is perhaps death and a game meddling with his blue arm.
My front doors are always open / so that I may see vintage skyline opening up it’s tongue to dissolve my small limbs into it’s
system.
A gramophone that listens up my cries at the night.
What shall happen to my knuckles once they float in the air?
Oh, don’t be scared right now.. (atleast not for sometime).
I have walls painted in the color of blood, the golden hour of melting pain
The paradoxes of life have a strange sniff attached to it. Life takes no side, it slips in terror and terror. I stare at a flower, and I ask what about you?
Will you live or remain isolated?

P.S DO read my other work on my insta handle @myvaliantsoul

Dimensions of Pain

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Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.

Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.

i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.

A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.

I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.

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.

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.

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.


 

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.


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.


Mirror of molten eye


Lets cut your molten mirror eye
 the pain of anguish and beauty.
 Paper crux. Purgation and names
 Chalice of age,

A timeline.
 A loophole.
 Eutrophication of breaths.
 Missing smiles of Ganges.
 A longitudinal filth.
 Memories of a cactus walk.
 A deluge.

You have the eye to smirk
 bodies floating like ghosts
 you splinter the seed of skins,
 partitions of mind
 like a river from Thar.
 Oculus occurring,
 ravine crux of silhouettes.
 Damn! You mirror of molten eye.



Loosely inspired by Sylvia Plath's - Mirror
©Image and words- MVS

Breathe.

I am nocturnal today, like roses building up on my arms
speaking language of Gods. The air is turgescent, dripping lust for words. lust for my beauty. I walk on the arch of windowsills with blue loops of eyes, tingling some sensation. Something unheard before. A voice of metaphors dissolving into my pharynx with lids open. To fly. To breathe.

I curl my lips like romancing with my poetry. With silence dancing on my bosom, sneezing and holding time. Swallowing my body. Words, a conjunction of sanity.
Rhythms and molten patterns of pain and loss. Acceptance and free breath.
I look towards the path of Equinox. Voices speaking untamed fire.
Fire and ice. Ice and pure breaths.

© Image and words MVS

P.s- Also I completed my 2 year anniversary on WP. How amazing is that! Though I did delete my blog once in this span, still I am grateful to this community and my readers.

Instagram


The way it slips

 Life bleeds
with vacuum and spaces,
backwards, a concave slope
mouths of thickening slurps.
it confesses its leakage
each day, puncturing my navel
a forgotten momentum
of involuted threads
of rising and falling.
Life, bleeds and bleeds.
a copious bruise of camouflage.

©image and words- Devika Mathur/MVS

I carry spring & children

Image result for mothers vintage
i have a tongue of colours
with rooms of spaces,
mapping you & me.
A Polaroid stitch of sinking,
like bubbles
erupting in my hollows
of womanhood,
i have an eye like the sky-
drugged, fuller lips
with ashtray of hopes,

I spin in my own body,
toes kissing head
heads going missing-
like a reality fading,
Is it a kind of operation taking place?
Anxious hair fanning my tanned skin,
I carry children & autumn
both sleeping in my dreams,
like you-
you faggot skinned- mammal
and you smirk my Lilly shadows
as always.
as always.

Black pain & walls

i have fallen with troops of maniac
inside this cold body
disappearing jawbones of sins
and masters of death
residing inside this globe,
the pool of ataxia,
the pool of coherence
with red pale evenings
growing,
chilling,
breaking,
falling,

Abstruse thumbs of broken lines
making me thaw,
ice-cold teeth
cracking on black grounds,
with lonesome stars,
knitting my naked body
like a work of brilliance,
spider's- job,
still, i fall this time...
i fall & it hurts.

®MVS

Inside the walls of sin

My bathroom falls, like walls bleeding poetry of forlorn wrists. The process of cleansing my body is like knotting my untamed hair into a Chinese Bun. The tools twist and become a shapeshifter. The water bath suddenly acts as an agent. chemical reaction running through my body. My bathtub is a war-like place, and I sit and smirk on my scars often, it’s more than a cleansing outside perhaps. I mingle wild, esoteric tears with that of hot-water to see the cracks running like a wild-fire. My body dissolving into pieces of nothingness. Hollow formations defining the next move, the next moment…here. I plunge the scrubber into my mouth, vomiting and rubbing the rims. The broken mansions, the eerie space. Rinse & rinse till i rinse more and more.

I sew a thread to my body, marking my periphery. It’s a process of insanity clicking, body shrinking. My breast smells that of an old oak tree, and arms weeping. The co-existence is a strange thing. Beneath the shedding of a star, another awakes. My ionized memory now fading inside the firmament of this deep ocean, awake & dead. Crystal knots yet invincible to the naked eye.


©MVS

Meera and her ways-#2

Meera does not hesitates to flip her hair in a motion of fabricated stories. She digests the moon and the tales like a wildflower growing. Her insanity is dreams and clouds, firm and evaporating. She sleeps with her open moist lips, dripping pain, violent way. Meera is system of crystalline chunks. Chunks of pepper and sugar, all god-like. Eating donuts of memory and fables of tattoo, Meera decodes her leg movements, her lipsticks stains of your shirt, on my shirt. She trembles to bleed, yet she camouflages in an aerial dandelion. Charred scars sits like an uninvited birthday on her spine, her bosom tender and flat.

She eats moss and drink moth in her drunk eyes. Eyes of iterative smiles, often Swollen tubes and tunnel swings beneath her thought machine, to define the process further. She is a bouquet of peanuts and a container of butterflies, a lavender incense in her throat. Needles of time chew her lips, she ages like an eye-shadow, with a question of fermentations still. Afraid of love & lust, slippery of tongues and knives makes her go mad. She is insane, I said that though ! The deluge of starfish in its own cobweb, that’s her. Agony atops her lavish heart, carnival today..carnival tomorrow like pristine flakes of squalid flux days eating her emotion.

Read the first part here.

©MVS


See- through -this- mind

I tried closing my pale eyes, like a water-chestnut dipped in currents and oceans
to put some relief on my maniacal themes, running like a sleep- walker. I converge, and dilate like music of light to imbue the monotonous sickening truth of your eyes. The sickening and sickening and sickening spit of your mouth.

I know it’s your zig-zag thousands salts of despondency, blur like a haze or an abstruse hook of pills and lies. Is it too bad for you? Or you want to dissect my ribcage, with a shovel of time. Spandex face, your smile a myth. I want you to change the sheets of my bed, change its theme and its moist forlorn tales. Could your reverse the pills and dig a choir of bursting waves of illusions & smear the sunken hope on my lips of mirror? They might crackle, if you run. They might become a figment of silver sound, lost yet found. Could you reach me out?
Like oil- dyed bodies collapsing and wondering. Like valleys & wine sticking to the mountains. Could you see it?


©MVS

NaPoWriMO#28