a heart to you

 

for all i remember the morning was obscure,
misty and dewy,
almost like a suicide.

he stood flowing, hopping from city to city
with mirrors broken,
a kiss forgotten.

i drew a circle that day to keep myself safe,
i always do that.
a circle with mangroves, swamps.
fingers / traipsing my mollusc body.

i had a fever.
cold and shaky like a shadow.
i wanted to perch on the footsteps you walked in.
it was that simple,
hallucinating your white-blue shirt.
oh the smell we created like chemicals.

a cadence you left still shines like the moon.
i keep it in the almirah i created,
my staicase.
a circle : of all the beginning.
I sit and fall like meteors.
and i capture your emblematic threads of wilderness.
a point of my sustenance.

---

my poem published on the rye whiskey review

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things with flowers

its like lilies.
diluted heaps of blue tears.
scalded and indexed.
all the marking onto my heavy lips.
My lips are even today,
with plum shade paint
dancing on the rim of sorbet.

its like white wildflower,
a fish with black scales dancing in its slumber.
Piquant, small pebbles cascacding from tears.
salty as skin. salty as dream.

its like mirror,
sequin shades of lover.
i am wondersruck galaxy.
These veins in my hands run fever now.

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Thank you dear readers for always reading my words and leaving your lovely comments. I truly appreciate it.

the only thing that matters

yes, its the drop of ink
on my mouth of hallucinations.
The pink, wet curvature of hope.
I am not always dark, for all you think so.
I often melt and float with a sestina on my hip.
A swollen ebb of amnesia and what not.

I am an empty room with a mahogany chair soaked in the sun.
I often swing like neem trees.
Those are the things, blue as ink and sturdy as ivory.
And i knit such dreams into my belly button.
Generating brick buildings on soft petals.

I don’t have much to say on these days.
I am often lonely in silence too.
Those things spread their luscious arms.
Its eternal, still body.

A capsule with powders of night secrets.
for those are the things i carry at my spine and lungs.
things that really matters.
Things that i pray of distilled white.

---

 

a little love

i do not say i want your metaphors all the time. I need your bowl of reflections, white and pure. Thick fog running through my backbones, i am tired of feeling this red colour inside my body. Dilute it, maybe?Splash a mute word, spreading like a fungus, onto my body. You see, i don’t want wildflowers, today. I am insane, and i want your insane, dark, rough love. I have nothing else to hide beneath.i can slice unhappy moon, anthills stretching this cold evening.

can you rustle, beneath the cold sheets of chills? And enunciate the dimensions of love, rainbows for me in an oblivious way? Sequins of art-work. I know your ways are more like a cobweb. A fire extinguisher, is all i wish. something that cures the sore tickle of my back, my bosom and mouth.

i don’t want  berry nights from you, i want your white shirt, to cling. I have been doing that and i shall do it. I want it to hold on like a brush on a canvas, sliding a blurb of emotion. Like a bulge on my skin towards more of left. Crimson skies full of earth.

I want that little love, that little home.

---

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P.S -for a change I have written a romantic piece, after a hiatus now. (to my love)

Things I like to do

“this is the easy time, there is nothing doing”- Sylvia Plath

Cherries and quieter moments
basking in the volatile spur of the moment
and there I sit and gulp your madness
your cold, hot waxy madness.
I wonder, how you eat my skin in the noon,
with a cheek of sublime apple,
water ripple flushing my eye.

winters are blankets of love and pain.
you sink like a twig in a swamp,
and you still want to clasp the moon.
My nostrils cold,
with you in it,
a sleepless satire of pale face.

I sit, a wall of clock eating my claw,
my fist aching,
counting the floating moment of time,
A catharsis of breeze often romances with my bosom
telling me talks of air, crisp and erratic.
And there, I am lost, empty, earthed like air.

My recent work published here- my words.

And yeah once again I am all about SP! And where are my old WP writers?

the rise and fall

i guess, at times i walk on the waters,
the ebb, a reminder of my narrow chin.
i have a thing for kissing life.
and i do it precisely well.
i kiss and drink the sweetness,
the stars and the sound of the bells.
i metamorph into a syllabus of a veritable smirk.

dreams hold my mouth and put me back to sleep until i am awake like colours,
vibrant and throbbing a dark spot.

at times, i become seasons,
my body, a criss-cross of lanterns.
it’s small and beautiful.
And that’s how i inhale smoke,
my voice tore away like sunsets falling into the rivers.
streams of gushing ripples on my cheeks.

there was a time once,
when poetry was all Mediterranean Sea to me,
with potholes and hammers,
squirming noises of silence.

The semesters of trimmed life makes me a moon,
a person in illusion,
a mirage rising inside the languid skin.

all that is you

you have a burning orange taste
like the room lit with forest.
dark and sequin patterns of lust.

my darling,
i look at you and i dissolve,
 a cape of Ganges.
From your cheeks,
i sip dews of dusk.

and i worship you like a dreamcatcher,
praying for your lucid footsteps,
A soft murmur inside a winter room.
cigarette lips and pink nails.

in your shadow of Auburn smoke,
lips wet like a half-baked moon.
let me trace your lavender skin,
a filament of my springs.

I float like a spot

i see you spreading like blob of colors
sunset inside your mouth,
a hundred nights of sickness grows.
somewhere, arms growing like a living room.
mother, your chin spewed chemicals,
on the night I was born.
1:00 am. a night that swallowed both of us.
You carried varicose time on your sickening waist,
like time made you of clay.

and you heard my voice of lace mucus.
screams growing like fingernails.
you said i must grow, where ever planted.
mosaic pieces stuck to my pharynx.
big- boned, thin legged,
i am 26 today mother, i still bleed,
the way you did last night.
am i you? or life is ingested like you
into my system.

i try shutting my eyes,
inhaling,
inhaling
inhaling.
a thing you detached from your wrist.
_______________________________

a thing about winters

the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
hidden beneath,
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.

Understanding it all

i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum

i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.

thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.

The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.

and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.
________________