I have this indigo skyline infront of me,
expanding the vastness
i put my thoughts about it into my blood.
not swallowing it down to my veins
i have thoughts about thoughts,
my pale tea leaves dissolving so fervently into the water,
the sorbet pouring down the jug till the rim creaks
i have you in my mind now,
sipping my cold talks,
between the creaking of mountains and bed,
I split & tear
quenching, reaching like tides.
A poet’s mind is never too quiet
it absorbs even as the sky expands with colors so unbearable, quietly.
And i do not refuse death, so that you may know.
I knead my loneliness safely down my sweet- ankle apple,
all through th trembling small palms.
I keep it to my body, somehow.
on many other occasions, I would weep through a lipstick and a forlorn tale,
a tale you must not know,
eating a fruit so wild,
shutting off the dim lights
There is a process of a thin black band expanding
as if the body is swaying through the knowledge that is wild.
I am often so subdued as if everything is disgusting.
The poet’s mind is too insane to write a word like
M I R T H//
through the shards of the ceilings.
Death makes so much sense to the poets,
they almost survive the death each night.
My Phospherent body of raisin skin
moans and swells like a process of Spirituality
with fingers clinging your mouth,
your scars, your lips, your teeth
and your heart of surrealistic reverie.
I become a thunderbolt,
in the opulent windows of dreams and smiles
wearing your white shirt, I swing.
I swing like an autumn leaf,
cascading down your throat,
that black spot on your chest
You thump and palpitate my arms.
Spring is born between our naked lips.
The temperature of cold walls crack
in the slices of Orion blue.
A stardust drinks the entire Constellation
Life trembles and illusions occur.
I breathe you somewhere between
the spaces of my index finger and my thumb now.
I wear your sins on my mercury tongue
levitating branches and seeds of satisfaction, darling.
swallowing another vein
outstripping a colour.
A semblance of mouths happen
with a tripping thrust of tongue,
A man dies and another blooms,
eating a piece of time.
syncopated sheets bleeding,
like ruckus of seizures,
does everything lick time?
i have fallen with troops of maniac
inside this cold body
disappearing jawbones of sins
and masters of death
residing inside this globe,
the pool of ataxia,
the pool of coherence
with red pale evenings
Abstruse thumbs of broken lines
making me thaw,
cracking on black grounds,
with lonesome stars,
knitting my naked body
like a work of brilliance,
still, i fall this time...
i fall & it hurts.
No, I don’t write to cherish your cotton melodies.
An orange boy sleeps as I write and decorate my pages with
mannequins of moist thoughts.
There is a broken periphery as my words, letters unfurl the unsaid.
The corrosion of tanned face, the bleeding of fingers
onto this sheet that absorbs my coconut ink, seems seamless to me.
I don’t write to make you believe in my writing,
Fuming naphthalene skies, beneath my words
Iterative slumber happens. A baby is born.
Like ferns and twists of my tiny arms and twists
my words open, a reverie. A Hypothesis.
And so I don’t write to write. My fingers disintegrate and I ripple again.
“Her heart was made of liquid sunsets”- Virginia Woolf
So, this is how it starts, backwards and forwards
A canopy of fire dwindling in the mercury stars of ocean
Routing the past weeds and merciless eyes
Imbroglio thunders often attacked me, I threw fits and seizure
on these wooden floors on the horizons of your body
and so much vomit, Ah!
But you see the endings do not end here,
My teardrop holds your bones and breaths
uncountable fantasies clinging my necklace
Prolixity of your memories often defeat the pendulum
I carry so much in my heart if precisely stating.
And so this is how it begins in the stardust and galaxies
where I calm my madness and powder my worries
dropping my heavy footsteps into the pool of oceanic torrent
The electric waves do teach me brightness and darkness if you must say
And my heart takes everything you spit on my bedsheet
My heart touches the ebb of mundane sunrises and sunsets
Still working the aftermaths, hurricanes, polemical truths.
P.S- Virginia Woolf’s writings are always resonating and mesmerizing to me. My words are only and only a small tribute to this powerful soul! She shall always be an inspiration.
Whispers: A tale of my forlorn soul to my fingernails
A point of truth occurs on my sordid laps,
I had enough of alcohol, enough of pills now
Fatigue, disappointment, Dropping ink,
Like a spot of timid bee,
my back scratches the pain of black paint,
spawling I am dwelling outside the cape of unknown and the known
Travelling graves and the faded stars
Beneath duality, a layer of another transparent air exists
Cubes of salt and granules of sugar
Sip, slap, gulp.
Hush, my thoughts are evolving back and forth
oh, forth and back(tapping the drums,
The breakfast I prepared stinks tonight,
I will eat the dinner in the morning.
The circumference of my naval is lit yet again,
There are stories piling inside, Stacking of memories,
the throbbing of outnumbered voids.
Silence, noise, silence.
“Under your skin, the moon is alive”- Pablo Neruda
My body has gone counting
The twists and folds of your skin.
My hands have carved a tattoo
plunged into your chest,
where a basket of sunrises glitter
like the moon’s hideous smile.
I have heard the murmurs of your heart
where white earth blooms.
Like sagacious door-knob,
And the small key-hole,
where I flow like mesmerizing dust,
Aurora hair sparkles,
golden Orion of moon slice resists in you.
Crackles, splinters, chills, winters
found in your wet earlobe,
as I walk upon the moist earth,
my sagging dreams
only to meet your infinite luscious skins of skin.
Rugged and stained like diamond pieces
Equinoctial beats and wet lips,
This darkness bites my sour mouth
with injections and nerves of seizures.
Hymns and flavours of sharp projections
Contoured and well defined
Smirk. Like a swamp of poise.
Eternal Black Spot.
The ink parts my foot and declares a War
With swirls and prowess for moisture
and a supernatural belief.
It’s madness or total anxiety.
It’s a full stop. Rubbing my tongue
I see my eyes, the mirror work and the stones.
I see it with a thread of wool and deductions of logic.
It wasn’t like I was soaking in a pool of sunsets and sunrises I was alive and breathing, the time you felt my body overlapping my curves, you swore you learned geography like the Polaris meeting the souths of your dark pole
I giggled, moved like a lighthouse swamping in potholes and dents of a curved house, I was alive and breathing with a firefly floating inside my head With a bouquet of red hopes disguised as your white fingers touching my white sane mind, white bedsheets, white walls. The black corners clashed, carbon mouth descending, still breathing.
I remember picking up a cactus and swallowing it. Ingesting sweet Irish coffee. Swirling a garland of despising and pebbles of mundane realities. I was evolving and thawing. You intact my shapes and declared me Nuclear.
Seasons yelling. Nature smirking. I was still breathing beneath the iron chains and rusty tables. Falling leaves adorned my body often, like a thunder giggling a thunder.
It gives me immense pleasure in finally collaborating with Poems in Coffer girl Chhaya. She is a lovely soul and so is her scintillating writings. Italics- Chhaya
A room full of rancid leftover night is a reminder of repugnant voids that conform to the oddities of a desolate decaying mind
I hear my mind crackling and fading with
whispers gone, numbness sticking
the walls break inside my opaque body,
thrashing and mocking soliloquy wilderness
Pain: the metamorphosis of painkillers, death.
Hold my cryptic thistle cacophonies
Like a lotus scratching a lotus.
the senescent atrophic walls that preserve banal prosaics from bromidic tales of love are a source of an abhorrent odour clogging conduits of all my senses and all that permeates my cranium is an insistent sound of stale knocks that still linger on brazen panels placed on fermenting doors of oak
Devoid of a filter, cupid raspberry, air.
My veins play laconic tunes to deaf poetry
with sinking toes in a pool of madness
my body aches and desiccates, trepidation somewhere.
The wax image of my parched lips,
dribbles till the curtains evaporate.
Icicles of pain pokes my palm
Unheard epiphanies, unheard voices.
Wars occur and I am a black moon swinging.
Under the clock of stingy bees
I dedicate my memories
I dedicate my breaths, mirrors and lost talks.
and I grieve for murky windows with shrivelled wavering frames held by creaking rusted hinges the ones that steadily deflect every beam of light and hope yielding layers of mouldy mildew to spread like a suppurating sore on the bod of my mephitic room filled with leftover nights without you.
And the clock strikes 3 a.m
still awake and crackling
pain does that to your mind and lips
it detaches a swirl of orange lust
fixating it to prayers and oxygen.
I become breathless, hard as a tomb of a wolf
how blessed are the souls who breathe effortlessly
The pale air climbs my feet and then my watered bosom
with mirrored stones, some mundane puffs I breathe
And the clock strikes 4 a.m
still regenerating the amorphous conversation like a silhouette
I breathe like a ghost
and the pain ascends further on my black curls, splashing
the pit hole talks and a whirlpool of paralysis.
Pain. Pain is a connection between the living and the dead.
Learn its formation. It breaks you, firmaments of tiny blue crystals.
Envelopes of blue talks and blue hopes stick to this breathless staired body.
Do not draw art and do not juggle stars
Take a long brush and insert patterns of demarcations and directions
I am a moist conversation trying to soak your presence
And this pain comes and goes, my body is now a complete sanitarium.
Oh, the clock strikes 6 a.m