As I Pray

Vintage photo

Resolute flames of candle burn on my windowsill

catching your white still fierce memory laughing in the atmosphere,

Tonight, I rebuke the ashes and the time of Thar

to halt, a clock eating another clock somewhere

If I slit tomatoes with you, you shall give me memories and formations.

For you create footsteps and geometry,

Carrying your dainty artistic eyes in the paintings of my body

I replicate you, I replicate your duties, Mother

And I learn the process of Catharsis from your bellybutton

I sew your words to my hairdo, swaying

singing your touch around,

And I pray and pray

like rainbows touching a slice of paradise.

For, I shall always be You.

P.S – To my everything, my Mother.



Moonlit Romance

Imagine walking on your balcony to a moon this close...
image credits- Pinterest

“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.

©My Valiant Soul

A thing unknown


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.
Magic. Fireworks.

I am still alive

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.

I still am stirring and breathing.

• • • • MVS

Leftover Nights(A collaboration)

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.

© Chhaya and MVS


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


Point Zero

If i tell you my bones crackle, coarse carbon black

each time i sit and turn

would you slit a piece of the moon and ask her to mollify my pain?

my hands’ quiver and the elbow aches, screams and shouts as i ink my pain

like a heavy layered pile of stones resting on my newborn thigh

bending my earlobe down…down…

too much healing, prayers

chants and oil

i wither and desiccate in the flick of the time,

i am human, i weep and wipe

with a swollen cotton, yellow  glass or a paper

I am hushed and quiet like a falling star

Pain is my new muse, chopping my chin

till i am at point blank.

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.


image courtesy- My Valiant Soul

The Way I Do It.

Related image
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.


Spotting and Observing

If I saw a woman like this I'd say love yourself, respect yourself & remember you're a gift. image on imgfave

Today was one such day when I took my seizure pills and went to sleep

in the darkest of crisp floors of dreams and nightmares

with my cigarettes still burning, mouth full of water

In the turbid walks of women’s lane,

a niche of mirrored talks happened

with a soul crooked and cracked

Vinegar lips kissing Dracula fingernails and hope of stained floors

I feel stitches in my stomach, spewing out disgust arrays of unheard bone cracks,

It happened beneath the yellow door of my cauldron of thoughts and anger,

I was partially a dreamcatcher and partially a sleepwalker

Silence of Aurora fills my thin bone marrow

And tells me another tale of liquid voices, tales and dreams.

I gasp. Observe. Run and sleep and dream in circulation.