Update on Olive skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that Kristiana and I have started this collective together which talks about all your pain, abstract verse, surreal poetries through our collective Olive Skins. We have received a great number of submissions for the first issue based on the theme “loss”. While we are still on for reading submissions, we soon are going to revert to the ones selected.

Until then, do submit your pieces if interested.

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A poem like this

Daily Discoveries · But What Should I Wear

Mouth of stars/ flickering hands of aesthetic people/ a blue picture/ a few more aesthetic people/ watching a turquoise dream altogether/ hands covered with kisses and sweet dreams/ a picture so surreal/ A body naked/ Warm/ a corroded necklace/ some more soft kisses/ Prayers/ An air of lullabies caressing toenails/ Journeys ending to nowhere/ starlight sinking like a grapevine/ bubblegum wrappers/ A night so dark/ Nothing fancy/ Orange peels dripping juice/ Skin so soft/soft as forlorn sky/ soft as a womb/ a word so pious/ temple bells/ a poem like this.


Submit your work for my collective Olive Skins here

Pivot

rub, rub
this ripple of water
on my lips
that twitch & break.

A lotion of rain,
winds collected in my eye
and a nude vase of arm,
that hums a cerulean sigh.

An acoustic of roses
swivelling my nerves
a blue vacant vein
now full & warm.

rub a spot of clouds
onto my bosom of emptiness.
a tongue only knows moisture
a tongue only knows a life beneath.

A joy emerges
from the shamble
of splintered life.
rub, rub, rub
a butterfly, a moth,
a window of blueberry night.


Ignorance

What does this speak to you?
my lament and a burning tongue
a swamp so full of oiled waters

I have an eye of the tiger
a frivolous running star
and often I sink in the void of blank noon.

They ask me how do I look
when I smile and giggle.
a silk saree well pleated and insane maybe.

I walk in the blazing red zone now,
I am scrupulous little statue of pale city.
I often smile,
I often glorify.

Check your thermometer now,
am I breathing still?
Is life still circulating around my small feet?
Check again, you.
A life sucks dream of one’s mind
and shove it into the loop of insanity.


P S-

My recent poems published on two drops of ink.


Snippets from my life

Image about girl in ~Indie~ by Katarina on We Heart It

eggshells,
Coconut water. A vintage period film.
Clouds that speak a simple language.
A symphony sitting behind my silhouette,
a whimper of art.
Circles  of red tensions,
swinging to swing my hair hard.

A lipstick so dark,
my hands suffice the pain…
and the parched lips, bodies producing chemicals.
Fever in ropes of summer evenings.
You know how to feel it.
To drink it like a lemonade, sour/ therapeutic.
My life for you.

it begins as a full stop,
ends with a diagram of loss and repair.


My latest work published on Piker Press


Things that slip

Napowrimo#9

Where I walk, where I sleep Flowers bloom, ivy creeps The turning world, the gift of life Mine

Whirl like topaz,
hear exhaustive voices, all like a mother-daughter relation.
Watch a point of Stagnation. Reverberation. Too much cold.
and carry the footsteps behind,
live, live like a flower on a naked body.

There are no cloying questions of life.
You will fail if you swallow life.
Don’t.
Don’t fidget about the atmosphere.
Observe these crazy annoying things in your mind.
Lillies blooming and dying.

Things as soft as a petunia.
Things are as dark as my mind.
Let them slip, oiled and kneaded
into the stack of insomnia and other wild things.
Do not think.
Conjunction of mind is a beautiful process.
So let it be.

Speed creating a sliced illusion,
you cant’ defy filthy chipped minds and nails.
Let the process of leaking begin.
Watch it once again.
How your body floats, finger evaporates up in the sky.
That glorious sky, now.

Watch it fall again.
Things that make you full.
Rains, flowers, mushrooms
bouncing like peals of laughter of unborn.
hear it… hear it again.
Let things crack in your small aperture.

monsoon in winters

NaPoWriMo-8

There is this pond at the back of my backyard,
filled with kerosene and knots of pale moonlight.
I drink summer drops from the systematic cold windpipes.
There is a blurb.
Short. Precise. Like a mother’s gentle touch.
A glistening path of nothingness. Absolute silence.
Here, my body sits and watches the dance of the gods.
Dance of gods up in the sky, monsoon in winters.

I rest, I rest like an eternity on the vertex of this pause.