image credits- pinterest
if that is one big word
I want you to gulp it down.
My walls speaks of you
of a memory we shared
over the sweet sunrise from the balcony
Your percolating memories stir my throat
to think of our blue wise words.
I was always a pebble
a sweet, piquant attachment
from your dreams, father
a moist lost string of a pullover
that you always wanted to cherish.
I think of the sky
as I think of you
of infinite stars
of colours and oceans.
Of letters stuck to the neem trees
as I hold your this lost letter.
this is the only word that you should sleep on
for you remind me of rudimentary silhouettes of trees,
lukewarm peel of laughter.
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For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe
The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.
Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary chirpings and shadow.
hallucinations or reality?
Those were the days of love.
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Slow as a neighbour’s plant
Slow as a ripple static
An oblong wax melting away,
slow as raindrop stuck on a tree
As a splash of colour unable to blend
a monologue twirling inside my stomach
a song so old
with cough drops all around the drawers
Once a melody
now only an arm
now only a forehead
nothing at all
A nightmare in blue
It knows nothing now
only a flat desperation of air
The feet knows the crevices of life.
A small dot and a fanned breath of a leaf.
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
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I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.
These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.
The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.
I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.
(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)
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There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.
The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?
The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires
step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.
Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.
There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.
Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence
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Cities left like empty vases,
a spot once full
Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,
Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.
Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.
Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.
Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.
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I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.
I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,
yawns in the afternoons,
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth
The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories
by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.
The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z
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branches/ twigs entangled
between the phosphorous skin of ours.
Circles of slow breaths
deeper of magenta blush
The months become cold.
fever rushing through veins
& chills of hypnosis
against the walls,
on the kitchen slab
we spread our colours
while the black night absorbs our love
through the static throat
then, then, then,
here on your pencil neck
only to watch the mornings again
constant motion, blurring the hands in the sun.