when a flame dies

98.306_01_b02-large-tiff_4000-pixels-long

& the way a drunk mosquito burns—roasted
when it strikes a humming electric
racket, sweet pleasure is found

in the touch of a fire, getting
closer, warming undulating nerves,
burning many skins and hearts —

i sit beneath a cornucopia of thoughts,
shaded by empty words and loss, un-
true to the universe, unforgiving of
black nights and their igniting stars.

i want to learn how to perform in symbols
and when there are shortages of voiced whispers,
i need to let go of my vernacular, my colloquial
lips in favour of a rusted language, that
i have borrowed and bracketed for my cause.

i don’t remember the words, not their units
of deflated lungs, alight clay lamps, final
sparks of a flying cracker in the air, so
i absolve myself of all that has gone,
not knowing, not even writing, because
i don’t know how to do that anymore.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with “Kerry Says ~ What is Metamodernism?” at With Real Toads
Image source (Untitled [glossy black painting] by Robert Rauschenberg)

spring of lust

and i am tracing the spaces
your lips covered/caricatured
on my sunshine skin —

my lips blooming&bursting
this spring of lust, bereft of stars,
while i look for my own loss
in the dark.

the roads are endless in this city
of loss,
but my beginning is its own end.

where do i go to seek the poetry
of things? how can i ever
make this night last?

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 4
(Inter)National Poetry Month

body of lies

i don’t have a name to call my own,
the winds have taken my echo,
erased my impression on this sand,

i am reading through the leaves
of the nature’s manuscript, infusing
a blood of green & blue in my veins,

i lie down on the broken boundaries
of a globe, while plucking at my throat-
strings (coursing through the rivers,
plains, and mountains) in search
of a lost voice, that was never mine
to begin with, in this body of lies.

.
© Anmol Arora

For Weekend Mini-Challenge: Homographic Fun at WRT

breakdown

additional_3a1c3c69a612436a164459984279c47d024084d4-7
the entry to the path of sorrow
begins with a moon-shaped tear,
a fissure made the exact measures
of guilt and trepidation —

the leaves are brown, shades
of evil intermixed with erased
shadows of hubris, the roots
extend to the edge of mindful
games, that we play and lose
against ourselves,

lifelike patchwork is the center-
fold to this closet-like space,
where any form of easement
into the wing and skin of things,
takes a toll on what keeps a breath
functional, carrying on the treble,

silver-busy emulations of the past
take the form of ghosts that come
out only in day-light, and work their
ethereal way through the doors
and dreams, the greed-eyed arrows
fixing, breaking disciplined griefs,

i have elsewhere to go, nowhere
to belong, enough of the calendars
and clocks have been spent, rendered
useless in the loss of feelings,

i gather exits to stop all my blind deeds
from recurring, and shut the banners in,
becoming the equipment of toil, to find
some need of listlessness, the coal-fire-
red glow spreading in criss-cross patterns,

as the ongoing landslide
is felt (the ground i tread upon in
beleaguerment slipping away)
before its coming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The Beauty Is In The Breakdown Painting by Kevin Cross)
For MLM Menagerie’s Bonus Wordle

Also Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.