these lips utter a pause of lipids time after after like a powdery cough. they bloom and shatter with details, wisdom of lush lights a fluid, a shade, a soft sunset resting on my backbone Each petal a dandelion of rays, imperative words 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. ©MVS
i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.
I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming.
Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.
I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.
Photographs are blurred memories, of faked, chipped, plastered walls cracking like walnuts, eating its own body- Walls & bones dissolving inside the tooth of dust, memories can be fatal, if picturized or vandalised. All memories collide inside flaky cheeks producing abhorrence of stars, photographs stick like a parasite to your naked soul & exposes the flimsy spots of your entire galaxy. Like the black spots of a beautiful bird. Wax droplets memories afloat.
The day I shed my skin,
what will it be named and scored
The table of mahogany, the scent of yellow stained old papers
the blanket now white would be turned crisp golden
Mosaic moments Transparent fragrance Cold evenings
With time as a poking device on my cheekbones
I would shed some pieces of satiation, hunger
on the nape of my thin neck,
Screams, lipid screams and tongues of unborn voices.
Knives as powerful as life,
will slap me with cuts and honesty
Stating the end of pavements, the end of seashore walks
Strangulating noises will go missing in my head,
That writer’s block will be missed as colossal as a thunder.
dropping sounds of Sonnets. Wheels of bleeding pale ink gushing my veins.
Thirst of a parched desert, Oval eyes seeping thrush blue waters.
I will be ashes and the rest will be an Ode
With sagging back, my lips will shout “POETRY”
Emulating peachy air of life- death
I will be a memoir and a tribute
I will be someone or something, in circles and loops.
The day I shed my skin.
What intrigues my eye the most is the sweetness and copious jelly myths of the world. A truth about death and beauty. Shapes genesis hoodwinked as orange sunsets, leveraging. I form petty diluted circles of observance hanging outwards from my malice thighs. A point of dissatisfaction. Itching of my eyelids emphasize that.I become a murmur retracing my vintage memories and an array of laughter. Is that real?
Pain makes you semi-liquid. Oozy and dropping.You want to lick its hard mahogany slurps and burps, you fail. There is a point of indifference arising in the lines of palms and ankle. The resistance. The stagnation. The repetition. Mollusc scalded and halved to bear fruits and offsprings. Offsprings of delusions and love. And a linear equation is formed like a stack of memories stored in the jar from a lush garden. So, is this real?
© Image and words- MVS
Alcohol on my newly-born skin,
Do you see the patterns and the checks, the spotted wings?
I lick this ferocious almond scales on my skin, counting the pores
And I measure the breadth and length, obtaining details of details.
The oak tree knows the dents and paints
in the surreal landscape, where people romance
The lavender fields twist in its imperfection,
it sees black, grey, black, grey.
We travel and remorse like a soaked cotton ball in hallucinations,
We learn and emancipate, we gulp metamorphosis
and stack our bodies with memories, rub eyelids to breathe.
We survive and smoke, smoke till the moon spits anger, guilt to our innocence if any.
We are a floating wax of titanium spirits yet we fear cravings. Solivagant in dreams.
I suck the sand, the colourful dust and lips of my lover
I suck the galaxy of you and me.
I know, this arithmetic of us and time. We will evolve too.
©My Valiant Soul
For memories does not spark my romance with life
Nor do they slip through the curtains of moisture.
All these years, even when I was a teenager,
I watered the dying roses and Orchids
Flushing a spew of lightning and rock salt
People became a mystery to me, leaving me stained
Behind the sturdy brown doors, a knobless door
And then began a veracious knitting
of words with emotions
I popped millions of pills, smoked cigars
Innumerable open wounds made me ugly, they said so.
Placid openings spewed disgust, Torrents powerful.
So, memories clasp you, twist and give a sudden twitch
They furl and embrace your naked soul,
Immersed in the droplets of blood and ink.
Memories are nothing but floating crisp memories.
image courtesy- My Valiant Soul