a nightly soirée

night-fishing-at-antibes-1939

Night Fishing at Antibes, 1939 by Pablo Picasso

words enveloping a slight breeze,
igniting curious forms – electric flowers,
dilapidated furnishings –
in this white expanse of high-
rises, and low lying lives (living lies),

words holding aloft meaningless
outlines to my structure, night
breathing its sonorous sounds
of cackling, ravishing through me –

i see gyrating epiphanies
of dahlias and pigeons mating,
of rain falling on the clouds,
bursting spectacles on the ground,
the predators prancing in a loss
of the timidity, of their own flesh.

dreams dreaming themselves
in a dreamscape verse – white doves
fluttering like paper, striking sun,
deepening gashes, of scarlet-violet
thickening into crystal lies (one disguise),

dreams holding fictions apart
from an unlikely truth-like reverie,
and drinking evening dews made of
spider silk, cactuses, subservient me –

i feel the voices of the dead
in my brown breast, thumping
steps of journeys, bound by
ringlets of faith, on the bodies
singled out in their own ecstasy,
of a rigidity, of their own levity.

~

it is a nightly soirée of handsome faces –

dark mouths,
darker eyes,
light dreams,
lighter skies.

.

For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge; also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU

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what i think when i think about myself

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the unembellished glass on my window
is not of a reflecting kind, it changes color
with the sun’s brow, disguised by its own
retention of what hitherto it did beget –

when i think about selves, i mirror
the glass of my window, and pluck apples
from my eyes to taste the sense of sight,
and single out every experience in its own light,

when i think about lives, i snigger
like the loony bark of the mutt outside, and push
into the so-called oblivion, a thought to right
the wrongs of being one of a kind, of this plight,

when i think about you, i am triggered
by your mirror of my own life, and try to pick
from your eyes, any sign of a comic relief, to indict
myself for subsumption of an egotistic delight,

when i think about myself, i quiver
like the potent wine of the sky outside, and pull
out from my own self, a torn thought to site
every memory, to extinguish into the night.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif

Photo edited through Instagram and Prisma

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*Linking with dVerse OLN

words and other kinds of addictions

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jarred from a pint of smoke
swirling like a gothic eyeliner
in my lungs, i feel the white rush
of an unsung addiction all over me
(being breathless in lieu of living),

i have seen beatific dreams of
an obtuse octopus, jeering jellyfishes
through my inner-channel
of reprieve – the loss of only a certain
kind of mediocrity,

i do not fit into the lines of my sleeping bag,
too big to carry my shoes on the head,
or crown me with metal links, or to tattle
through fists – the truth of only a certain
kind of morbidity,

i am a wastrel marooned in the aftermath
of my demise by goodness, unfit to perform,
cease control to rememorize, or to chase
my ghosts – the habit of a certain
kind of melancholy.

.

Image source (Up In Smoke Painting by Meredith B)

For Wordle # 202 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

It’s been a while – I haven’t felt the need to make a post in all this time. I have still been writing and discovering new avenues of my own expression, developing and improving the craft of my verse and its corresponding art. I have incidentally worked on a short collection for myself, indulging in everything from writing and editing to framing the layout and designing the cover (owing to my amateur skills in layout and designing software). It’s been an invigorating experience. My thoughts are catered now towards the idea of getting it published perhaps – I do not know yet whether I should pitch it for traditional publishing or self-publish it instead.
Nevertheless, it’s good to be posting something on this blog again, which had helped me through the harshest of times and made me fall deeper and deeper in love with poetry.

Chudail: Creature of the Dark Hours

bright and entrancing

black seductive eyes,

nefarious as night

long flowing hair,

bloodless visage of

the corpse,

smeared red

the swollen lips,

with the torso

of a hyena,

she rises at dusk

walking across

the abandoned lands

on her retral feet,

snarling her

long-pitched intonation,

the young maiden

travels through

the night in her

drab grey apparel

looking out

for the lost souls

to prey upon

and subject them

to her succulent mouth;

the chudail

of the dark hours.

Poetry prompt:- Creature creation