when a flame dies

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& 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)

Violet Juice

Violet juice dripping down

seeping through the lips

gritted through the canines

down it flows to the chest

 

gives the pleasure at its best

the sipping of intoxicating wines

a quite shudder at the hips

the head be dazzled with a crown

 

the beautiful lusty juice

through the body, running loose.

 

P.s.- Its my own poetic form- three stanzas, rhyming scheme being ABCD/DCBA/EE. I haven’t named it, as of yet. I am open to suggestions.