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
these lips, unfurling to revolve a poem about a poetess
to be told somewhere in the empty walls once again.
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.
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.
my darling create a tremor,
with spaces white as snowflakes.
i slip into you, a swirl of art.
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
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.
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
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.
in the folds of time,
a soft music exists
humming your songs,
tunes and a black river-
with a piece of forgotten fingers,
what not -
in your maps of the tongue
& wild bridges,
like nothing existed
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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