Soaked Lips

featured in the poetry forum July 19, 2019  :: 0 comments

These lips utter a pause of lipids
time after after
like a powdery cough.
they bloom and shatter
with details,
wisdom of lush lights
a fluid, a shade,
a soft sunset resting on my backbone

Each petal a dandelion of rays,
imperative words
upwards and sidewards,
spitting veins dipped in blue ink
blue sky…a blue world.
Porcelain drops of dew
like lust to wax
a moment of spurring thoughts
defying existence, one by one.

editors note:

With every word, we defy. (We welcome Devika to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Sundays and breakfast

featured in the poetry forum May 5, 2019  :: 0 comments

Here, I speak the truth to you,
the lies of occupation in appealing people’s sorrow
and the green urban dirt — a ghastly deduction of smiles
makes me a crooked vase of emptiness.
Monday: oh, it pours the spikes in my stomach
and churns the pancreas till the heart bleeds.
Saturday: a monotonous tone of soils parching,
producing fungus and mushrooms
Nothing remains, a wall of concrete harmony.
This tongue here craves the stardust of sunshine if any.
Something between moist eyes and moist thighs goes missing,
something between the linings of bricks and charcoal is vintage epoch.
The aprons, the tables, the cigarettes
the Sundays and the breakfast of savouring
my thunder, clasping the pharynx of my scandalous worth
is my favourite.

editors note:

Ferocious fare to wend the week away from weakness. – mh clay

The perception of life

featured in the poetry forum November 30, 2018  :: 0 comments

the way I close my eyes is a seduction.
a clementine red prayer to my body,
with dark clouds. a sleepless child humming.
a black spot spinning in the sky, apparitions of liquid monotony.
it churns the limbs inside
with a mouth of lust.

there is a dark room with closed fists,
fists that shimmer red pain. Inside my mind of a blank page.
a white pure kiss hanging,
like a loop foreheads murmuring a word.

a seizure. a dream. I close my eyes, I see myself floating
alone in the lanes of words, a reverie of mists.
Flowers bloom inside my mouth. Knuckles of painted red nostrils.

This land is pious for I am unknown to myself.
I sneeze like a ghost
with my hands saying my uncanny dreams.
a concoction of love and death.
it’s here, speeding like a wasp.
we walk like ghosts,
sip and drink,
the arching thunders of time,
slipping softly.
hush and be quiet now. Be your own butterfly.

editors note:

Which bring life? The perceptions or the words? – mh clay