On Distress

Empathy. Discorded vermillion loops of human emotions. One must know the end of attachments. The lasting effect of expressions. But do they ever end? The language and syntax between the hurt and the healer? The strange connections of despair souls and longing eyes- the connectivity. Sadness is in unity. It clings to a verbose effigy, below the torrential glow of your elbow. We think we have time? But do we? We think we will be happy? But are we? The pain demands empathy and unity in sadness- a collectve circle of pungent healing. Longings are vapourized flowers. They stench and bloom bothways.

Longings are sadness- a temporary floral cloth that covers your nude body so that the body isn’t nude to anyone else. But one knows. Polythene eyebrows. Fermented cheeks. Eyes- swelled up. So we tend to connect- share- heal and proclaim our healing is in sharing.

Sonograms.

Clueless black itch
pendulum songs.
Scrapping against the mud-
the noises of ‘what if’..
and so much more.

The mind of a poet is that of a delirious day dreamer- wobbly feet and scrapped tongue.

My spleen is swollen- it does not weep further
but my hand does- they produce movements,
curvature( black & blue)

We poet are fearless rock.
We swim through mountains and remain hurt always.
We are imaginary songs- figurative drawings.

Through the voices.

She is a small island
A voiceless twig to flutter
A crecent of moon dropped from beneath-
the body is resourceful
spun into a river.

Now I am silent as I watch my window
with angular toes amd face
birds so small and distant,
That is that. That is that.

Bones awaiting the hours to fly by,
And here people like light rays leave
Salt without wrinkle
Ceiling without star.

I am calm. I am sand. I am calm.
It is the calmness that settles, flees and aborts
into miniature beings of discomfort blankets and nap.

A rare yellow minute when the birds die in the womb.

A poem from – Crimson Skins.

Sharing this close poem of mine from my book.

To get a copy –

Amazon US

Pothi- India

Reading a poem.( How to)

Reading a poem:

Chop, turn and locate.
Stir the dust and sniff the page
No, do not gulp right now.
Halt and watch the words
flossing amidst the golden page
there, a wire of tangent imageries,
a sharp tooth that slurps the pain
wiping faded things,
blossoming into a new Earth-
No, do not stop!
A word you mis-spelled,
just like the rotten limbs of yours
a field of moth & moss,
scratch the page, prick the word again
now scratch your face & swollen head
Yes, there...almost.
Think. Think. Think.
It roams and gossips a false hiccup
a false person into your thinking
But it does not make sense yet, as is this poem to you.
An empty hallway
a barren seed and faces of pale glamour.
So how do you read a poem now?
Do you make love to it
or watch it getting naked
moist as a Sunset charm?
I suggest you chop, turn and locate this poem.