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.

monsoon in winters

NaPoWriMo-8

There is this pond at the back of my backyard,
filled with kerosene and knots of pale moonlight.
I drink summer drops from the systematic cold windpipes.
There is a blurb.
Short. Precise. Like a mother’s gentle touch.
A glistening path of nothingness. Absolute silence.
Here, my body sits and watches the dance of the gods.
Dance of gods up in the sky, monsoon in winters.

I rest, I rest like an eternity on the vertex of this pause.

A slip

eea4946d4a01240c2764995efba2bf546331898216227204185.jpg

i have written in my belly,
a thing for you,
your name that clamours this wall.
i have it preserved into my bones,
these skeletons of dark bowl.
ah! your voice, eccentric, atoms of atoms.
you blink, and i am basket of sunsets.

this life is a point of conversation.
with you, i skip this life.
a word that flutters still, like a pill.
you,
my darling create a tremor,
with spaces white as snowflakes.
i slip into you, a swirl of art.

As-You-return

Things return like autumn,
 with leaves, shades and colours
 as your mountain essence
 stick to my collar-bone,
 in the moments
 of nights, haze, dawn.

One by one,
 I circle around
 you, infinite-ball-of-love
 and soaked in your fingers
 and memories of the return,
 this mahogany burns,
 it burns as a bay leaf
 in segments and silvery parts
 I fall into parts,
 your demure pasture of lightnings,
 your mushy belly button
 your mouth of Jasmine

We made love
 to grow old together
 to be a single fallen star,
 we made love for your return
 where I am picked and loved,
 like a frozen pea,
 in your hand.
 And, I wait here
 for your return
 all like a wool,
 Fixation to occur.

©MVS

Uproar



i have a body that whizz like a circus
 two eulogies of sanguine madholes
 clifts and wars of a drunk man
 Loss of vision.Loss of words.
 repercussions produce hollows
 as deep as a cactus.

My knees producing floating amphibians
 Almost inhuman.
 Slid my copious throat
 you will have two minds again there,
 savaging my body
 like it's a loss of nothingness.
 streaming hot heads of loss.

©MVS

Recent Trends

Three Children and Wagon c. 1930s #history             WOW the first sweet picture I have seen with Black and White children.

Some people I see these days are like
broken paragraphs of my poetry
with a missing meter and inconsistent gravity
Detonation of disgust pits and addition of volatile
vodka stammers my insipid vision.
Half moon, half-blood, half mouth covered,
like a decomposition of the great Odyssey.
Some people these days are like
Vintage tributes( but unfamiliar, surreptitious).
With a bumblebee of summery sky,
they bite your pure coltish recently built home
Some people these days exists like this
till they tangle your knots into miseries.


-My valiant soul

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