I might have trembled a bit with my words before but there is no dimension to art. We create what abstract images look like in our thin membranes of mind. Some say it is- art- a way of living. I am unsure what it should be named. There is eternal power when we feel satisfied doing something- a thing that delivers solace and creates an abstruse anomaly of questions. A stack of melting rainbows. We need to catch all the colors and hold them in our palms to define the dimensions of life as we continue living this vivid, weird phase of life. Not every heart will remain the same- so dear artists- whatever side of the story you have- it should produce distinctive behavioral and mentalist satisfaction to create and to quench your own truth. There is no truth but you.
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.
monsoon in winters
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. you, 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 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.
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.
like never before
in the folds of time, a soft music exists humming your songs, tunes and a black river- with a piece of forgotten fingers, dancing, crying, what not - in your maps of the tongue & wild bridges, time evaporates, like nothing existed ever. ©MVS
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
image courtesy- Pinterest
this poem is a liquid moon
My nights are inked
to the soiled sheets of tears
where the callous jaw bleeds inhuman poison,
or a thing pale as your heart
i sew it up to my nostrils, cold
the fragrance, shrieking my inside pits,
its dark, like blank spaces
Everything seems to be a show- off
your hands, your lips
my intelligence to care,
the nights turning them into molten pieces,
i die and become a ball of clay,
stuck to my body,
a parasitic drop of blood.
And there i lie
all dead and black,
with hemisphere dwindling,
and mouths missing
white thick slurp of warped words,
darkness runs in my heart,
like a lighthouse to my dreams.
your slurpy mouth holds magic to sediment a stoic seed of silence, like silence. calm shades governing, a tip-toed saliva of blank eyes, a life kissing a life. behind your earlobe, the sky falls, in tunes of carbon thick slices of carbon. coal romances with fire, life exists everwhere.
A small talk.
Hola, my dear readers!
It has been ages since I have done a pep talk with my soul or anyone about my writings of late. I know a lot of you love my surrealistic poetry, yet since past a few days I am unable to feel the flow as if something is missing. Not a writer’s block, but something anonymous perhaps. It irritates you know. My inspiration is growing into a thick rope of fungus. My mind is stiff.
And, I also wanted to thank all my dear reader’s who have read me in depth like crazy. I might not say it each time, but I genuinely appreciate your time. Also, I might be irregular with my poetry as things are insane inside my mind but hope you will continue reading me. Saying that I still follow my rule of following any blog that interests me. Period. At times, I write on my Instagram account, but managing all these social media is surely not my cup of tea.
I will rather stick to this beautiful community. I am also working on my books yeah I know it is taking time, still I have to do it, besides that my work is scheduled in some of the magazines and that’s all.
Nothing much exciting, I guess!
Love & light~^^
Inside the walls of sin
My bathroom falls, like walls bleeding poetry of forlorn wrists. The process of cleansing my body is like knotting my untamed hair into a Chinese Bun. The tools twist and become a shapeshifter. The water bath suddenly acts as an agent. chemical reaction running through my body. My bathtub is a war-like place, and I sit and smirk on my scars often, it’s more than a cleansing outside perhaps. I mingle wild, esoteric tears with that of hot-water to see the cracks running like a wild-fire. My body dissolving into pieces of nothingness. Hollow formations defining the next move, the next moment…here. I plunge the scrubber into my mouth, vomiting and rubbing the rims. The broken mansions, the eerie space. Rinse & rinse till i rinse more and more.
I sew a thread to my body, marking my periphery. It’s a process of insanity clicking, body shrinking. My breast smells that of an old oak tree, and arms weeping. The co-existence is a strange thing. Beneath the shedding of a star, another awakes. My ionized memory now fading inside the firmament of this deep ocean, awake & dead. Crystal knots yet invincible to the naked eye.
As a mind bleeds
You would bleed mentally, axis by axis to know my aching cheeks and lips. they do not flutter, engulfed in smokes my mouth, volatile and dark i am a pattern of transition disgusted each day, separation of tongues divides these breasts once supple, i am a sliced burning moon only diced further, till i dismantle my nerves. I will die a walnut death— with cracks and dust flooding my brain.
P.S-I did not take care of punctuations, deliberately because i was too lazy to do it. And i do not care!
These circles of fingers and skins and bones, and something beneath the bones, ashes rub rub rub something beneath the thoughts of thoughts burns, and sins and sins. Crooked dripping lies, exhausting this naked galaxy heaviness obviates fireflies thoughts thoughts thoughts Stinking and swelling, I am a pause. ©MVS NaPoWriMo#9
P.S- I might have missed writing on WordPress yet my insta is updated with the challenge.
What ‘it ‘does to me
Let me say this precisely.
I entered in your walls of quietness to flutter, like vapours and fumes
with hushed heartbeats —baked body,
Titanium slipped its coffin like a bell tower
inside my teeth and foot
empty and broken whispers
I entered in the temples, with doughnuts swinging
charcoal breaths coagulating my sanity
insane, insane she is insane
Cracks and mosaic
filters these walls, like a moth biting a moth
and insanity blooms, for the time, is spring
incessant murderous time( If I have time, I will perform disectomy)
I stick to a shadow of curtain,
absorbing its peachy warmth, rotating and curling my lips, my hips
and I rub my palms to enter once again
in your swollen canopy of sanity
I eat the brevity of moments
piece by piece
in irregular, circular motions
like the daunts of rain
the daunts of greys
with cerulean eye- dots.
These limbs are an array of woollen mouths
fragmented and ruffled,
in the moments of despair
in the moments of sunsets.
I conjure and swallow
all that occurred here,
in these moments of pain
in these moments of abortions,
Life romancing fatal nights,
a spider knitting a bridge of paradise
it clicks and time haunts the future.
And, I eat it all…moments.
©image and words- MVS
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