a/ Palette of cycle

Toscana ūüć∑

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

Vintage industrial room ideas to get inspired by are all here! Find the perfect industrial lighting fixture for all kinds and purposes - all in one setting. #vintagefashion#vintagedecor#vintageaesthetic#vintageindustrialstyle#vintagetrends#vintageinteriors

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