poetry · prose

The face of a woman

Model Lexi Boling is styled by Carolyn Murphy in pure femininity for 'Blithe Spirit'. Photographer Sebastian Sabal-Bruce is behind the lens for Porter Magazine #26 Summer 2018./ Hair by Edward Lampley; makeup by Allie Smith.

I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,

yawns in the afternoons,
doping shadows
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth

The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories

by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.

The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z


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poetry

Meera and her Ways.

Meera drinks nectar like an inconspicous child. With a bowl dipped in sugar lime soda. She travels around your iris,swallowing apples. All at once. The windowsill fades aways as she drops her clothes on her mosaic, transparent floor. Refraction delivers prejudice. A moist floor. A lady bird walks in an old fashioned way to sip her hollow images. Meera is an Ecosystem of sins and sins. A tapestry cracking.
She wears a deep mauvy bindi to discard her ebony scared patches of dead dreams.

She is like a shadow of an unlit oil lamp, threading a map of disgusts and soft lust onto her soft skin.Her outer skin defines mangroves and thunder. A cobweb.
Asphyxiation of dark charcoal, burning.
A soft kiss on a lover’s forehead. Squeaky.Gentle. Her body, a holy chant. Silent words plunged deep into her heart like an owl’s glance in austere darkness. Sharp.
She floats her arm in the void air and she becomes a forbidden territory. Demarcation.

Meera rests her heavy eyelids near your sequin moth- like mouth with a prismatic mirage of loops. As if she knows you.Her tampered electronic voice.
Her orange rusty elbows.
Pickle paradise rests somewhere in between her lofty legs, harrowing.
Her skewered jawline defining her rumpled life.Roads of distress.A conjunction of poets.

Meera is like a clay-ball. Elastic. Absorbing and sinking in her sickness and lies. Lies of trivial sagging head spins. All lies.
Summer breeze collides her eyes and fills her sloping toenails with antique emotions.
Meera is an art. A wooden box of pixie dust. Incensed with crisp secrets and desires. She floats with her semantics of time, piled like a silver stack of spoons.Galloping her fears, she puddles the dirt each day. May be that’s her crime.

Do you know her?


®MVS

poetry

For I am a Woman.

Tan suave y lleno de arte con pequeños olores esparcidos que captas de pronto durando un segundo. Three Rivers Deep (book series).
image credits-Pinterest

 I am a protrusion of rose,
hiding the black spot of the moon in my valour
that rises white dandelions on your skin.
My finger bones creak my virtues,
giving a red shade to the once grey shadow
for I am a Woman, invincible like mammoth stars,
I seek, I wander through the rim of sidewalks
conjuring in roles only unspeakable of.
I walk, I swim, I conquer, I am a swollen mass of expectations
I carve sunflowers, lavender on my forehead,
a thorn indeed wrapped in the interiors of my lips,
my sun-baked lips,
still the succulent lips
oh! My lips.
And then my heart speaks a language of ripe fruits,
yellow pages, white pages all inside
burning a canopy of emotions
Decaying, nurturing, flourishing.
for I am a woman, invincible like mammoth stars.