Cold talks

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I have seen women in a room
chilled as the mountain,
drowning in a ravenous shelter of heartache.
A feverish leg that jolts in summer.
Women breathe sand and exhale boken poetry.
Women in my town, dessicated in fumes of black clouds,
they do not speak about the evil talks now.
What is it that revolving between their cleavage?
White as their scarred skin,
summer rains blooming between thin eyelashes.
A star slips on their neck, nonchalantly
and they shove it back in their dreams.
a lullaby is eaten and forgotten, again & again.


P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins

A women’s spring

i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

When the water is Dark

Kate’s lip was cracked. She ran with all her struggle.
A few petals of autumn leaves fell on her naked back,
torn clothes revealed her scars now,
The heinous brutality was a dark cage
People said it will be alright. So she fought.
She fell in the web of masked society. Hard to inhale
hard to smile, locking horns with the concealed brown pit
Splash of waters did not soothe her skin, now her sagging vapid skin
So she fought again.
She knitted courage from her belly button expanding to her gazing eyes,
The once charmed, innocuous smile
full of dynamite forever.
People still say Kate will be alright.