I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
often too blatant.
I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,
This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.
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Between the waves and trees
There, beyond the ripples of mouth,
lovers sits & communicate,
through the sprint in their lashes,
flutter of springs.
a translucent shadow defies time.
for that particular moment.
small things begin to dilate.
too much convulsions,
temperature drop, wrinkled grass land.
A grasshoper watches sky detonating.
laughters circulating the wobbly afternoon.
A visceral face expanding.
There are marks.
marks on the filtered earth,
A wasp of Lilith neck.
Lovers scamper across the evening sky,
floating through the oasis of skin,
flesh, promises, a picture to repeat the art.
the shapes that attach like clay.
A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.
Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.
Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.
Inside the rim of a bottle
Or outside the grilled window
You poke and churn the mystical hoax
Digesting into the pool of madness
A reverie. A fiction. A ballistic throttle.
A healing iris. A gargantuan of flowing words. A paroxysm.
Peel the skin, scratch the inside of an apple
Search the word, burn it and inhale in
your surreal peace, preen the mirth
And swallow the liquidity, join your body
With its formation, a constellation of stars
Then, you shall know insatiable hunger.
Auburn circles of faith, drooling hope in my throat
choking my senses to deliver the web of matched periphery of dawn to dusk.
I am hanging from the top of colossal tree, where children and lovers come
to bask in the mirth of my golden shade,
My sapphire corset lying in the turbid laps of nature
under the paintings of blues and purple
above the yellow, purple neighbours
in the memory of Olympic soil
I cherish the glamour, the petrichor
the crisscross on my head,
the elysian corners of hugging my pits
I am soaked in the essence that fascinates this moment,
As I am An Auburn circle of desire,
A daydream sweet pie, A hot ball of shines and flicker.
A solitude in everything.
trivial issues get reverence,
vital people ignored
the state of mind has lost its intoxication,
oh! I miss being the wild one around.