Hear me talk to the adventurous soul Petra on the recent episode for her Podcast that she calls “Erratic Hat Podcast”. I talk about creativity, the writing process and about publishing process etc. You can check out the podcast and her blog here.
Also, I have changed my newsletter title now- it is called – “The Weekly Shine“- Try reading the newsletter archive here and if you don’t like you don’t subscribe, it’s that easy!
I curate classic poetry, mindful activities, artwork all that for free.
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,
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?
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.
Helplessness running through the haze of clouds,
Hands swinging, liquified skin and slaps of salt grains.
I prick my soul, to check the shrieking
the altitude coincides with a marriage ritual
in the Altar, in the temple
Between the moist lips
The air halts, pause
and my skin kisses my eyes
Throbbing of mind, the paintings of my room cracks now
like the white eggshell
I drink the art of this moment, quiet now
I rub alcohol and ashes on my face
Indexation and outnumbered faces,
I am colourblind, I am crooked, oh still I count the maths
I run until I fall to melt into the sand
and to begin my heavy footsteps again and again
My body is sinking, catch, catch.
It may fall like a sharp needle pointed towards the foothills
It may rise like shedding of words on paper
Catch, Run. Catch, Hold. Breathe.
The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.
Embedded in the swamps of paroxysm
where I see no constant paths or pavements
chipped walls, chipped florals, chipped winter
cascading all through my pale face
in delusions, in fallacies
I cracked the seeds of opulent hypocrisy of yours once
I shall do it again,
and again and again.
Till you split like apples and dice into cubes
with a naked foot of mine
I shall pierce you,
thawing your fingernails and burying
them into a grave
empty and swollen.
And then, you shall die. (claps, claps)
P.S- I know its all-new year thing going on everywhere but for me, a new year and new day is always when I am happy. Pardon my dark write-ups or even better deal with it! Who cares, after all!
I will explain the inaudible question today,
The nerves of my brain, poke the inners of black skin,
Time is boundless, the clock stares my power,
Like the drunk stare of a beggar,
This memory shall fade, this body shall become liquid,
what shall remain is my shadow of beauty,
I ponder the fidelity, It reckons my pink misty heart
where a seepage of dust, solitude, infestation resides.
Time heals everything, and what about the healing of time?
I hear the crackling of my wrist, speaking veracity to me
I hear burns and see ashes.
I swim in my own generated swamp of lies,
And a sparkle of love.
I am a ghostly moon walking naked on the surface of volatile Earth,
Do I scare the truth now? Or I am the truth?
My Body becomes a wild forest, nails chipping, sentiments floating.
Love, despair, contentment, diligence, heartache’s.
This moment sucks the weed and the ice, I learn something about—this hideous moment.
Circulation of stars was more familiar during
those sincere days when our bodies felt the lust,
the smitten rose kiss, the dandelion slaps
on our naked, yellow tongues.
Telephones were intriguing, for addiction kills.
Fingernails did not chap, broken things did mend.
Inside the tubes of bars, ladies enjoyed
with a brew of solace and poised wise.
My teeth crack to see the irony today,
humanity dies, numbing the skies.
Sometimes when I walk on moist roads,
The oak and the cactus pigments my impeccable skin,
slapping mud onto my thighs, making me realise a sigh!
For life's revenge is time,
And nothing binds the state of time.
My latest work published on Duane's Poetree.
-My Valiant Soul
Here, I speak the truth to you,
the lies of occupation in appealing people’s sorrow
and the green urban dirt— a ghastly deduction of smiles
makes me a crooked vase of emptiness.
Monday: oh, it pours the spikes in my stomach
and churns the pancreas till the heart bleeds.
Saturday: a monotonous tone of soils parching,
producing fungus and mushrooms
Nothing remains, a wall of concrete harmony.
This tongue here craves the stardust of sunshine if any.
Something between moist eyes and moist thighs goes missing,
something between the linings of bricks and charcoal is vintage epoch.
The aprons, the tables, the cigarettes
the Sundays and the breakfast of savouring
my thunder, clasping the pharynx of my scandalous worth
is my favourite.