The face of a woman

Model Lexi Boling is styled by Carolyn Murphy in pure femininity for 'Blithe Spirit'. Photographer Sebastian Sabal-Bruce is behind the lens for Porter Magazine #26 Summer 2018./ Hair by Edward Lampley; makeup by Allie Smith.

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,
doping shadows
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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The Awakening

1950s Unlimited

Tablecloth,
wet bedsheets,
branches/ twigs entangled
between the phosphorous skin of ours.

Circles of slow breaths
sighs,
deeper of magenta blush
The months become cold.
almost nostalgic,
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

But then…
then, then, then,
I collapse
here on your pencil neck
only to watch the mornings again
constant motion, blurring the hands in the sun.

April

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And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.

These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
crickets squeaking,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,

I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.

My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.

It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
blank sheets,
rattling sky.


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The Affair

Vintage Photo of a 1950s couple in the forest by a stream. See more vintage photos of couples in love at www.vintageinn.ca blog #1950s #love #valentinesday #vintagephotography #1950sfashion #couples
There isn’t a sight that does not make me think of you
of your auburn burning skin in the heat-
a poem so soft on your lips,
it almost is center of all light
I produce
an inflammable kiss
awake
with fumes coalescing into fumes of rainbows
The body rises from something so chalky beneath
an enormous restlessness
traversing nights and days

I wish to remember days like these
beneath my frolic skirt
above my trembling belly
I wish to swallow your blank stare
your stare that revolves like a tangerine sky
with leftover peels of my summer orange.

I wish to remember dry afternoons
with a song inserted in my mouth
a bee that rotates like a tulip
between our fingers entwined.
Like all things of love and soft music.

Desires

38 Sweet Snapshot Show How to Have Romantic Kisses on Valentine's Day ~ vintage everyday

 

Of lust I must speak to you.
This body glows like a river
only too thin to bend over you.

Acknowledge the minuteness spread onto my face
across the loose limbs that floats in the air.

Of beauty –
I come to you,
spreading a knob of orange garden
where the time collapse and stops for a moment.
This moment captures us,
to bind us for a sparkle of glory
Of Tongues and tongues
I dream of point of indulgence
A point that emerges from my bottom to your top-
Plants in the cold rain
like diluted streams of romance

You row in the nectar of my oozing moonflowers
Atop my bosom you sit like a wax
spreading an ensemble of winter dreams and summer breeze.

You do not stop there.
I announce carnivals in my womb.
It does not stop. It glows further.


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The Lovers

/ A R Y A / pinterest: @riddhisinghal6

Walls of the air do not crack
as there exist our stories lingering across the streets.
Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance
speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust
The brooding sniff of the moon
to sink between my large womb.
She often speaks to me of you.
Your abstract ways of unraveling things
behind the layers where mockery hides.
To pleat the abhorrence of life,
your bones are my memoir.
my spot of expanded prints & rainbows..
Make me bend and scream,
your coral colour creaks on my tongue.
To the tress, I wish to announce
a twig suddenly has fallen.

The night

There are different ways in which i sip my tea
the one that dwells inside my chest speaking of you,
your eyes are my favourite perfume,
a rivetting hiccup that soothes my freckles.
My tea speaks of you in ways indefinite.
The body is incoherent, beating loudly to sit beneath your ailments,
your feverish toe that curls my belly.

Where do you travel during nights?
Like a poem dissolving into the sheets of soil,
amidst the wild sky
where i sniff the patch of cold winter,
you only you can do things to me what the earth does to sky.

The trees have begun to dream again
of embroidered romance and things beyond
of goddess and intinate corridors.
Of lust & prayers.

We lick each other like palpitating cotton candies
then close into our scuped veins
levitating in the air,
We become full into a phenomenal clous of moans.

In transmission lines,
I suddenly become aware,
nocturnal hiss of bed sheets of sounds.

A love song

Magic Moonlight Free Images: Romance!

Let's roll our tobacco tongues together,
a song so pure, the poetry of cosmos.
I have a word stuck on my eyelid
to love
to walk on the lines of your mind.
A world created of seismic waves.
And this bedsheet witnessing our lovemaking,

I have a love song
hidden under my blouse,
intricate as my palms,
detailed full womb of springs.
A song,
parallel of being
A single light.

And we suck this night
out of the paper straw,
this mulberry night of waves and potions.
We suck the air
making the atmosphere thin and fragile.
This galaxy is now
plucked from the hands of our infinite words.

check out my poetry published on Vita Brevis.

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.


The touch.

Change my atoms of body.
make a sin out of this floating skin.
A lotus. Inhale my vapours like a sun kissed windowsill.

A slice of moon sits on my neck watching your toes circling my platonic waist.
a waist that hold your liquids, your solids.

A moment of sigh and resemblance.
Make me your thread of conjectures of dreams and skins.
a poets habitual routine.
Slit my thigh, a green antena.
suck my thoughts, a spiritual dot.

a map depicts your mind, soft and beautiful, here.

Details emerge as a florescent green bush,
beneath my thumb of silver weeps.
Sip my thoughts. Decorate. Redraw my body.
Hold my toenail. Be careful.
Be careful, I might slip like a fallen star.

NaPoWriMo # 16