when attention demands tension

and by the virtue of a dying god,
I laid open some old thoughts,
and assassinated each one

by
one,

the blood spurred on my face, the
fates danced in my dreams, I saw
a night so young and delectable,
that I ejaculated my venom, rubbing
against its folds, my heart stung,

it’s a morning of blossoming
shades, lilac and violet, that I enclose

in my arms,

the winds whip my hair gently, the sun consumes
my face by its silent glare, fuchsia rings adorn my
brown cheek, and I decide that it is time to sleep-

my face upheld by the strings of the sky, mouth open
for hovering bees – there’s a certain kind of violence in it.

.

A fragmented and anxious piece for Day # 7 of my 30 Days, 30 Poems Challenge.

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this is a communion of mockery

and it is bestiality that sucks
blood from my passion,

pin me down by your gaze, subdued,
I cry out, bite my spirit into chunks
of my broken armor, burn me alive

this instant, plunge my back with
the sword of impudence, against
my wish, but my wish is held true

in the recesses of this panorama
where nothing is seen, and everything
is naked.

punch my chest to make me numb,
your nails piercing me through
and through, till nothing is left
unterritorized. I’m no longer alive.

dead, I am, to the shadows that fall
on your naked back, I plunge my hatred
inside you with a power of resurgence,

of

this treachery of an evening, that lives
beyond the realm of an everlasting night.

let me be the trickster, let me
be the one to wrench open your arms
and embrace you with my lethal dance.

let me wrestle around the sky where
the sun has been plundered, disgraced.

let me eat the flavorless fruit
of this mockery of life, of passion.

let this night line my shores again.
let this night never touch me again.

.

The year before last, I took up a challenge to write and publish 30 poems in 30 days of November. And I finished it. This year, I am going to try and imitate it. This is Poem # 1.
Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

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Unseeable Identities

you are that unseeable identity, that

if I could touch you, I’d have to believe

that the stars have convulsed my destiny,

into a deep dense breath that passed

through your lips the last, which if I

could, I would store in my thought and

cling to you, stopping in your tracks,

.

but never did I know that I am helpless

and you were as well, and the story did end

the way it started, in anonymity of self,

by the destructive divulge, that dearth of

the flower of empathy that never sprouted,

.

its seed lost, smashed under the wheels

of your car, and your words did it all,

they hit my face with a blunt force and

I do not bleed, I am just left with shapes

of your anger, painful to sweetening while

the tears sting them with my obsession

over what was there, so trivial once,

.

now buried in mounds where a cactus grows up

surrounded by hills, it, you, everyone is still

alone and I am alone cherishing droplets

of blood that sprout out of my palms as

I longed to touch your identity and did,

.

still left without knowing what is that

treacherous triviality which made it so

that I ache to hear you in the dark so

that you can pull me to where you are

and make me a cup of tea and we talk

throughout the day, through the night

sitting on jute mattresses, I yearn to

hear you tell your tale and I hold your hand

as you guide me back to this time, your time

long gone, your name scratched by nameless

bystanders who still wait to spit once again

where there your bones lay dead, and I sing

a song of solitary sentence that not only

ceases the breath, but also erases a life

and a fate, and I sing, to continue, I sing

.

© Anmol Arora 2014

Image source: Painting © Arnaud Demol

I appreciate constructive criticism.

Trespassing all the way|_|As Existence Glistens

trespassing through a body made up of

jungle leaves, water weeds, fossil prints,

I engender a whole history in me, of rock

archives of gullible paints, of guitar riffs

eternally hovering in layers of time, but

.

then I am a trespasser, just passing by

(though sometimes it seems like a very

long distance, and other times, it is

just so short, like an old pair of socks)

today I am, tomorrow someone else

who would make the skin crawl all over

once again, because cowardice is true

and nothing else, in this banana peel

that you slip over as if its your own life,

that you can hitchhike anytime, I do so

in my dreams finding the end in blood

(fearsome.. ain’t it.. what truth beseeches)

.

I crackle my pale nails of toes, of fingers

that wriggle like an alien creature but I am

as well, (remember) a trespasser,  through

life forms, through elements, so to burn

and drown, and ravaged by air, or buried

in the heart of the soil, and still existence

glistens as long as there is a color in me,

as long as I can draw lines, series of circles,

I stay forever, but never when my palette

goes dry, and then I’d whisper goodbye

.

For dVerse Meeting the Bar.

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Gathering: A Short Story

They gather out of nowhere, like a crowd that drifts towards where blood gets spilled. And the blood is spilled this day, right outside where I fell down, while playing with the neighbourhood guys. I cried many tears and made a puddle out of them on my palms.

I was rushed to the doctor. I do not remember much but for the agony, when he sprayed some liquid which coagulated my blood there and then, which still is circumventing through my mind. I have been acting like a lame person ever since returning back home.

And now they have gathered. I have loved them since as long as I can remember. Mum tells me that it had rained the morning I was born and my first cry was accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and the morning hymns of the gurudwara, symphonising with the drip-drop of water pearls. So, it may very well be so that we are connected in some way.

“It is going to rain,” my sister says what everyone already knows. She rushes off to the terrace to gather the clothes, hanging to get dried in the sun, but the fate has it that it must rain today.

I cripple along her up the stairs and reach in time to have the first drops to fall down on my cheeks and stream down my throat to the chest. I feel light.

She gets angry and asks me to go back down but I am not the one to listen. I am here to pick at them and gather what I can, hiding them in every possible crevice of my body. I do not joke and thus, my intent is true.

She has gathered the clothes. They are now flung on her left arm and she hands over her right for me to take so that we can go back down. But I rather hold onto the door and crouch because I do not want to be taken away. I want to see my destiny in the few drops that have painted the dust riddled bricks below me. My blood had made stains just like that.

And then, the thunder crackles and the lightning zooms piercing the sky apart and showering blessed pearls. She exclaims in horror and takes me by force and yet, my arms try to reach out to them as she makes me walk down with her.

Stepping down the stairs, I lose my view of them at their gathering. I want to join them. My vision, thus screened, and I am thrust to darkness.

Now, I rise, feeling the trace of those drops on my cheeks that stream along, down my throat to my chest. I feel light.

I clutch at them dotted on my skin where the matchsticks have branded them. Feeling my ribs, I fall down on the bed, zooming through the many gatherings of visions or dreams. It doesn’t matter what they are because they are tangible to me.

.

A 500 word story for Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt. It is a blend of reality and fiction… what is what… I don’t know and I won’t tell.

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Bleeding into the night by her red cape

alas! it was her dire desire to drive

my heart, into a bull broken beside

by her red cape, bleeding into the night,

painting sullen soil with fingers that slide

in pools of her vestige, a snide sewage

of cognition of her, her presence saved,

it lingers in the air, her perfume made

from marigolds papered from ashen face,

that turned away from my sight, not to nurse

my wounds stained by steel, of her solemn church

of apathy, of angst, of ache, much worse

than what shows on her portrait in my purse,

a remnant of her, a part with me back,

lumping my love, there ain’t no pain like that

.

A little too late… for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where Mr. Tony Maude commenced the game of Bouts-rimés.

A Happy Valentines’ Day to the love birds. And the rest of you who are just like me, go eat some chocolate. I had a coconut candy instead. 🙂

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Note(16 Feb): I have two new pieces written but I am just not in the mood of editing. Therefore, I am submitting the link of this one for Poetry Pantry. I will be here and there, fleeting from one to place to another, but I will reach you in the end to enrich myself with your words. Have a good day. 🙂

Walking with her… in her heels

she wakes up drenched in the ocean of dreams,

and hurries off to repair, work on her life’s seams,

brushing rivulets of her hair, she leans into the mirror,

considering self, moving forward near and nearer,

only disturbed by the ring of the peaceful phone,

but deciding whether to attend it or not, it is gone

to leave a silence, that she tastes tingling on her lips,

and finally, she leaves for the streets, swaying her hips,

down the path to the usual location, she waits,

habitually ignoring the trail of car after car that rates,

the size and shape of her and others of her business,

conforming to their needs, their lives of weakness,

one hand points towards her, agreeing her to come,

she notices, complies, and through the door she sits glum,

on the seat reeking of cigarettes and urine of old,

she feels the four wheels move, she is now sold

to the night, forgetful of her heart that refuses to beat,

she falls out, not to see a thing or hear the fall of sleet,

coming to herself, she stands, stumbling, stiffness she feels,

exits a bar, a motel, an apartment in her heels,

carefully counting the bills, walking on into the day,

alone on the path where there are many and many  lay,

but no one really is, but for dreams that await on the single bed,

those false entities have no seams repaired, she has no threads

.

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I started off without any thought but then I was reminded of the insensitivity of some people towards those… whose lives they have not lived and yet they judge. They do not know how it is to be in their shoes. I feel and I can at least try to imagine their lives… and give words to their untold stories. This is a work of fiction but it may well be a real life account… I don’t know.

I appreciate constructive criticism.

I am linking it up with dVerse Meeting the Bar.