Soaked lips

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
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to defy time

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.

A vintage truth

Image result for vintage photos

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 Final Exit

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.


©MVS

Aphorism

MVS
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

Evolution

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

Memories are just memories

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.

©MVS

image courtesy- My Valiant Soul