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
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God
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.
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
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
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,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
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.
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.
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.
not everything stays.
Not people or letters.
i wrap my red poems amidst my lashes
and knitting them in my womb.
Something shall stay,
Here, amidst the wild eyes.
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.
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 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,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.