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.