I sit here. In the park full of overly grown people.
I see a black sky, lights flickering halfway.
A subtle ripple of a thought gushing in the man’s eye,
standing next to me
I emboss his voice to the sky, somehow.
A bush full of flowers,
sweet nectar from the eyelids
submerging my feet in the lush.
I walk and stay close to this creeper,
sticking to my bosom.
I adore the soft lust it whispers to the ear.
in the winter night,
where do they all go?
here, amidst the wild eyes,
amidst the lilies here speaking a foreign language,
a child’s laughter disappears somewhere.
The trees have begun to dream again,
oscillating between the heaven and the hell,
and in this darkness, I become wild and small.
Like a wildflower on the pathway.
A red dimness hovering my hand,
cold cough of the night
spreading like a red bright flower across the faces.
Where will humans go, now?
A temple, a church, a mosque?
Or will they sleep
with an enormous restlessness.
Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.
Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.
What about your muse?
it spreads under my own body.
duplex spiral grapevine.
Cherries under your foot,
A lament to recite,
day and night.
count and tell me the times I sank for you,
My voices tore away like a sunburn.
love blooms love with such endearment
A landscape of Oval sunset all in your palms.
this sky lives like poetry in your belly.
Where i come and sleep, to absorb the moisture of cold nights.
I bloom, like a lotus, near a windowsill to worship you,
i see you like vintage telephones in my surreal mind.
Rings of vacant loneliness has eaten me, desiccated me.
so i bury myself in your atmosphere of springs and springs.
Sequences are memories. An atom dissolves.
And I dissolve in you.
these lips utter a pause of lipids
time after after
like a powdery cough.
they bloom and shatter
wisdom of lush lights
a fluid, a shade,
a soft sunset resting on my backbone
Each petal a dandelion of rays,
upwards and sidewards,
spitting veins dipped in blue ink
blue sky...a blue world.
Porcelain drops of dew
Like lust to wax
A moments of spurring thoughts
Defying existence, one by one.
yes, its the drop of ink
on my mouth of hallucinations.
The pink, wet curvature of hope.
I am not always dark, for all you think so.
I often melt and float with a sestina on my hip.
A swollen ebb of amnesia and what not.
I am an empty room with a mahogany chair soaked in the sun.
I often swing like neem trees.
Those are the things, blue as ink and sturdy as ivory.
And i knit such dreams into my belly button.
Generating brick buildings on soft petals.
I don’t have much to say on these days.
I am often lonely in silence too.
Those things spread their luscious arms.
Its eternal, still body.
A capsule with powders of night secrets.
for those are the things i carry at my spine and lungs.
things that really matters.
Things that i pray of distilled white.
I know the pain,
Irrevocable moisture on pillow.
the fights between the pills and cactus
morning lust with skeleton.
Quick thick penumbra,
a hysterical sigh each day.
purgative blood makes you strong i think
something out there makes you more black
and you hold and clasp,
till you gulp and swallow
i know that surreal romance,
of seizures and tears,
of ink and words.
Read my poetry published on this amazing journal Dying Dahlia review