A Four Light Window

1

the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks

2
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
broached interpretations
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God

3

The third is the grass

you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.

4
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
Not anymore.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.

Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy

The slip

Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.

A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.

Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
forever palpitating,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
here,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.

My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.

The Look

 

I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.

At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.

An evening star

Observe the faint freckles between my fingers,
the red polka dot- a hum of my quiet anger,
slithering like thin sheets between two mouths.
lips- a place of complete soliloquy.

What do I see here?
A place of delusional spots,
hallucinations about a place like home.
So, I form a lotus with my hands,
a shape so pure, spitting shades of anger,
spitting again and again.

i form an Ode to the poetry,
through my index fingers, pastel skin blooming
and my knuckles rather happy.
This is a song I create, with a chest- brown light.

But then,
not everything stays.
Not people or letters.
But then,
then
i wrap my red poems amidst my lashes
and knitting them in my womb.
Something shall stay,
Here, amidst the wild eyes.

Midsummer’s mad song

How many times do I need to die
to keep you awake?
A figure of wax evolves and quietly speaks your name to me.
Your tangerine lips,
a lump of sugar and clove
all dissolved in my ears.

What is your language of love?
You reach my body with chemicals gushing
until the body shatters beyond a dot of oblivion.
I part in five thousand ways,
so vivid and distinct,
A chalice of fiction and midsummer’s song.

Darling,
I breathe you like a ghost now.
With a thermometer put on my bosom
and eyes chanting your name forever.

---

Check out Olive Skins here and do support!

A poet too insane

A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.

I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
too thin,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.

Update on Olive skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that Kristiana and I have started this collective together which talks about all your pain, abstract verse, surreal poetries through our collective Olive Skins. We have received a great number of submissions for the first issue based on the theme “loss”. While we are still on for reading submissions, we soon are going to revert to the ones selected.

Until then, do submit your pieces if interested.

dear readers!

I am talking like this after ages, I know. Thing is something is there I feel lacking inside me. That satisfaction, maybe? Since past many days, i have been observing the silent response on my blog, not that i care for the stats. But the comments are the things which always uplifted me.

i have toiled like anything for this poetry blog of mine. I have written god knows n number of poetries by now. So, the thing is if it is not doing good now, i want to know the reason!

and yes, i am as always grateful to all my readers who have read me for all these years. I have been busy lately because of so many other things. But i sincerely want to extend my thanks to those who were there to read me!

drop your comments may be, of what you think of my poetry?!

 

have a great day ahead!

Aerial forever

Darling,
i have seen the ombre of your lips and words
like mirrors protruding a new leaf,
like a vintage walnut is hidden under my pillow,
your kiss under my pillow, for memories are my skin.

Darling,
i have known you all these years
as the shadow of the moon, tingling my dreams,
making me nocturnal often,
your breeze like the nostalgia of lights.
and your mushy hands of solace.
pause and dance, dance and breathe.

Darling,
i see you as morning dew
as a charm cascading as red as a blush
around my waist, around my milky thighs.
extending til my toes.
your breaths are my home.

I see you like an eye of perfume if any.
Aerial forever.

 

 

Shut down

I find no motivation here, things are abrupt. My writings have ruined I feel. Call it a writer’s block or whatever the fuck, I just don’t feel like writing and my creativity has been literally coiled in loops now.

I might close by blog, I might not. But surely I know, no one cares!

Peace and light to all.

---

A small talk.

Hola, my dear readers!

It has been ages since I have done a pep talk with my soul or anyone about my writings of late. I know a lot of you love my surrealistic poetry, yet since past a few days I am unable to feel the flow as if something is missing. Not a writer’s block, but something anonymous perhaps. It irritates you know. My inspiration is growing into a thick rope of fungus. My mind is stiff.

And, I also wanted to thank all my dear reader’s who have read me in depth like crazy. I might not say it each time, but I genuinely appreciate your time. Also, I might be irregular with my poetry as things are insane inside my mind but hope you will continue reading me. Saying that I still follow my rule of following any blog that interests me. Period. At times, I write on my Instagram account, but managing all these social media is surely not my cup of tea.

I will rather stick to this beautiful community. I am also working on my books yeah I know it is taking time, still I have to do it, besides that my work is scheduled in some of the magazines and that’s all.

Nothing much exciting, I guess!

Love & light~^^

©MVS||

Journey so far

A year and a half now on this beautiful platform which gave me an opportunity of sharing my writings and reading some brilliant work too. I want to take a moment and say how grateful I am to all the lovely people here who never fail to encourage and support me. A lot happened during this journey as once I also deleted my blog back in 2017 and then made this new one which again you guys flooded with love, thanks for that! Last year also I got featured in various beautiful online journals and with God’s grace, many more are upcoming including my next book.

To be honest, I don’t follow back all my followers for the mere fact that you are not my cup of tea doesn’t mean that you ain’t good. So let’s just say that! I deal with various body illness and often mind slaps which makes me write dark poetry. I know most of you must be like get over with it already…but if you don’t like it step ahead, please. I won’t stop writing what I feel. Oh yeah, I write philosophy too or love poetry too!

I have met some repulsive creeps also on WordPress which I can’t even begin to describe because I don’t want to. I don’t want to make my vibes squalid and disgusted.

And to all you lovely souls, thank you for your immense love, I hit 2K in December and since then I wanted to thank you all. I always shall appreciate you and I shall always breathe poetry.

©MVS

---

As You Lay Dying

How many dark spots do you have,

Lizards and crocodile scream

to see you knitting lips on lips.

Papers mock your hubris hands

Ruffles and hibernation

In the planets of chivalry

in the swamp of lies

I see your lies and eyes,

A corrosion of rock.

I am a piece of molten clock

and

Your dark fingers are bait

like burning of ashes

cold powder.

Burial grounds smirk,

vicious cigars, vicious you

Discomfort intrudes my throat

with swollen ebbs of a horizon

I am a distorted voice

to see your insane games

only

I am more rapturous to

see you dying.

®MVS

---

 

Submit to Blood Into Ink

Blood into ink is a safe place for all the unheard voices of Survival and brave souls. Anyone who has suffered the cruelty or has been traumatized can submit their writings to the submission page of this bold journal. We would love to spread your voice and words.

Its a place for all the courageous souls who feel the pain, who knows the thirst and want to express it through their voices. Please feel free to share your writings and in the same process read the work of our fabulous fellow writers. Their writings are breathtaking!

---

Memories

image- self

The heights often scare me
collapsing: with celestial bodies
galvanizing, molesting only my skin
crooked tree trunks, molten rocks,
reside in the outer rim of my stomach
The rituals die here each day, epileptic seizures,
the concrete blood vessels begin to spit,
spit and strive,
my narrow palm opening begins to feel,
spawling and missing.
At this point, I am a soaked kidney bean of hope.
The heights still succumb me.
I remember how I drew paintings of that daisy from my lawn
I remember a lot now for memories rest like an atlas inside me.
And memories also teach the momentum,
the possibilities of reading a pale tanned leaf.
Like a beaming flicker, a corrosive Sestina.

Anonymous

Like fresh breaths and cinnamon aroma
I wrapped your almond curve of palms,
preserving it into my oceanic eyes
Monsoon lilies. Iterative Petrichors.
I swallowed your words,an Orion of kisses

Only to know you will chop the slices of apple,
bit by bit
Smudging the sweetness, smudging the rhythms,
smudging my dreams.

---