the poppies won't die tonight
I sense the drama through the bleeding faces again
the parched vase of you and me
the horizon of us-
a hallowing question to that equation
the fields seem opaque,
dreary, with white sunflowers
I run and burn
to sniff your presence
to sniff the existence
the love equation to the sky
and to things beyond
my feet seem to be the carrier of our love poems,
enthralled and quiet
almost like a woman lost in translation
Chips in frost.
as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge
the love rises
it breaks and fills the spaces
with things so small
almost like a hurricane,
there is no place left to make love-
not between such damp sheets, at least.
But the thing is everything shall be depleted. This. Us and our stay. What if, I could hold the habit of loving you for once? My eyelids dipped in lemon peel thinking of ways to dream about you. The rooms that still roar about our love making. The walls still cracking a semantic, quiet low noise of our moans and fight. Erratic evenings, whereby we submerge our small elbows in the auburn breeze. I want to cling to the habit of just that. Your coconut hair, small long talks, talks so mellow and crisp almost like I ate my fruit bowl. To hold your poetic words and brown moments of paper noise is all I had dreamt of all this while. To stay connected to your face, slender neck always popping and mind / spring quartet. Nothing else. That’s my habit/ a ritual that I perform each day to listen to the music of things staying lost between us. The Art of a singular dialogue. A singular atom of love. A single You.
Bones indigo, lacking a piece of earth, inside your mouth of stars a tremor of zodiac signs Like a Taurus blooming.
You sprinkle lust on my bosom bubbles of thin colours, a 4 am moonlight sigh. Tender mouths of mud and water, unborn fruits of the ultimate kiss. This is us.
My hips now like a parched lake. I am made up of unpruned divinity, an untamed odorless shadow of sky between the thick sheets of a dark city.
Beautiful sun, how you grow all over me, with a swollen tongue licking my mouth, as if collapsing in his arms. Inside my mind, there is a temple. Rain Sun Earth I will crack my eyelids open, now.
----------------------------------------------- (I wrote this piece a long time ago) I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
Yellow – scratched and heavy an unknown desire to melt between the stasis of the sky. Yellow, a color that dissolves inside my thin muscles, my tongue wired up with your name, a loose sheet of kiss and melancholy, Yellow: a quiet tapestry that hangs loose bearing limbs out of balance bearing mouths dripping foolish sins. An external pain of the body, a pain crisp as our bedsheet
I am a bunch of memories that belong to the sky patched and cornered.
I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
Beneath my chin above the nape of the neck a heralding discover I utter, a tune of orgasm in sunshine a tune of roaring diaphragm, here, I sit and count my fingers dipped numb and electric, so much despair that stares back. So much to reach just a hand cold, cold, cold and nothing else now. Limping and stuttering, between my cold clavicle with bones so thin and weak There is a waterfall of endless poetry dripping from my bosom a monotone of soft , quiet landscapes. It spills again, roaming in a silver night
I produced my book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical.
with our bodies colliding this night sings a song of petunia, a soft spring blooming behind our feet. A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.
The night is a tiny flower thumping against the sun-kissed breaths a hum of summer, a hum of winter.
The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows, a pathway to the flowering petals. Silver droplets of water, the body shrinks like a caterpillar now, sparkles of the rain, Too many screams now, too many abstract bodily postures.
This night delivers a tangled knot of whispers of leaves, like salt, the whispers rubbing our elbows, quietly. Hushed. A season of moist talks.
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
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,
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
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
an inflammable kiss
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.