blood jet is poetry.

-

shrewd skin sheds
poisoned blood reeks
wicked woman burns
her shadows dance 
in the blaze
serpents crawl out
her eyes spitting venom
seas stir in
her sinned vagina
yet the naked witch’s 
blatant heart doesn’t stop
somehow it bleeds
yellow flowers and poetry.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

wounds

-
Image
Father died yesterday.It was a slow,yet painful death.He had been suffering for the last five years or so.Or was it seven? Mary wondered.Time,an ever confusing chain of significantly insignificant days and nights indeed.Forgetfulness always pervades its way into routines,and makes you question your own sanity at the end.No,Father had been sick ever since she could remember.It didn't matter how long since.All that mattered was that she wouldn't have to look after him anymore.She wouldn't have to spend her days losing track of time anymore,tiresome and lonely in that dark room that smelt of urine invariably. It was the morning of the funeral.The sky looked bright, and the sunlight weaved abstract shadows on the car porch.They had put up the pavilion last night.Yet sunlight still seeped in through its thin fabric,like an intruder walking past a sleeping dog in the darkness.Mary stood at the verandah, gazing at all the arrangements that had been made.She wore a bla...
Read more

shades of autumn

-
The fallen leaves lay dry and dead, memoirs of a long lost spring, souvenirs of a wild scented orchid blossom. The winds blow from the Mediterranean carrying the epiphany of mortal dreams singing the symphony of death, the lullaby of autumn. The silhouette of the setting sun weaved the autumn shades on a crimson sky hues of loss and reminiscence painted at the hour of death.
Read more

maybe if i loved you less, i'd be able to talk about it more.

-
dead moths in the dark and the white of your eyes like frozen hyacinth, your mellow arms wrapping  the fragments of my heart, i'm thinking of how i had let your fingers plunge into my flesh and untie my knots- one by one each,that is. wrinkled knots, looped up in the caverns of my weird brain, always making up some  weird excuse to think of you; of empty motel lobbies and damp kisses, and the faint click of your tongue. "sorry that i couldn't stop staring at your neck today". i had apologized half-heartedly once. "sorry that i clutched your clothes and cried to sleep when the ache of being that far from you was too much" -i learnt to swallow words that day. there are apologies better left unsaid everywhere. apologies that aren't necessarily apologies. apologies written in vein blue ink, love letters lost at the back of throats.
Read more