a/ Palette of cycle

Toscana 🍷

What becomes out of a light that perches on the shade?
A coma or a complete sentence?
Does a wound heal if exposd to a skin’s love?
What becomes of a translucent onion that can not be further minced?
A life comes with a moment of quietness through the lens of wet eye.
A doctor’s favourite fruit is perhaps death and a game meddling with his blue arm.
My front doors are always open / so that I may see vintage skyline opening up it’s tongue to dissolve my small limbs into it’s
system.
A gramophone that listens up my cries at the night.
What shall happen to my knuckles once they float in the air?
Oh, don’t be scared right now.. (atleast not for sometime).
I have walls painted in the color of blood, the golden hour of melting pain
The paradoxes of life have a strange sniff attached to it. Life takes no side, it slips in terror and terror. I stare at a flower, and I ask what about you?
Will you live or remain isolated?

P.S DO read my other work on my insta handle @myvaliantsoul

smell of death

TOL-Shot1-081-700x1050

this is to my property,
to my poetry
that sinks beneath the cave of obsolete synonyms
a blob of blur pain,
a vasectomy to the skin of dreams.
There are things still left to comprehend for me,
like the voices of women,
in the kitchen
in the lawns of hilly areas,
a tree that speaks of death is already a dream.
i pace it, sniffing
in a thick gray- death soup
A space for a thing I am given
of indifference
i have memories growing like a weed on my knuckles,
a stale one.
a desiccated one.
but memories can make you think like a hurricane,
a dead star already?
a hospital that collects the voices of pain
in a bowl of mercury dipped cry
and the men,
all scattered
looking upon the rim of thin cloud
a transparent powder of dream
there is absolutely nothing there.
a sound that makes you believe in God is actually time!
priceless and quiet
my fingers…
they melt and sag,
they are told
Do not Touch..
It’s a smell of Death.
Rub and sniff it.

The Emptiness

adhemarpo: “ He Jiaying, peintre chinois contemporain ”

The emptiness of a man is not like emptiness on the wall,
it is platonic through the creeping sky.
The emptiness that talks to your mind,
where you understand the unparalleled world.
There is something bursting beneath the jawline,
something that produces more than a lonely feeling.
a sparrow reckons my dead poem-
a saddened tale that blooms under the belly,
They call it a dead poet’s nightmare.
A thing so vacant as if it never wished to exist.

The emptiness speaks of its beauty,
the narrow yesterday
The love poems of an old man.
I scream about my lies to the yellow walls,
a cue of slipping satisfaction from there.

What am I left with?
the most tangible noise to hear.
the warm crooked interiors,
the knob- cylinders empty,
t.v remote desiccated,
for noises inside the mind make enough noises.

There are fingers stretching forward like Spring
for help,
these lips, unfurling to revolve a poem about a poetess
so warm,
dead,
warm,
to be told somewhere in the empty walls once again.

what makes my skin so bright

 

I chop a slice of moon
of an excellent shard from a mirror,
I take a dip in a splintering winter well,
the well of charm & despair,
the evening air does the rest of the job
the apricots stitched onto my lips
my lips forbid to tell your secrets
there,
there is nothing inside the gateway to chivalry,
a half-eaten fruit
a half-read poetry
a half- kissed muse

There it is
I can feel it freely
a gallop of a hysteric wave,
a sunrise, so distant

you need the recipe?

see my knuckles, the hard egg shaled nails,
a fever running through my belly,
they all bow to my cheekbones,
my cheeks ingest your lies too.
How about it?

Will it be a part of the regime too?

and a salt-glazed cup
of electric moon

it didn’t take long,
to be like this.
i wept also.
I wept and wept
till my skin floated in the air so pristine,
and here you have my secrets
for what makes me glow
like mountains, valleys
You never noticed, never, fool!

A Four Light Window

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1

the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks

2
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
broached interpretations
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God

3

The third is the grass

you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.

4
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
Not anymore.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.

Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy

Dimensions of Pain

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Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.

Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.

i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.

A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.

I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.