The Creamy Green Message

The Creamy Green Message

I stood under a certain snowfall and thence
Bathing in shameless ivory, the trees
Naked, in almost an austere silence
Buzzing leaves and rustling bees
Spoke to me in tongues previously amok
Whitewashing brown in a colorless freeze
Like handwritten scriptures on a tablet of rock
The branches twirl, the twigs appease
Curling like a virgin’s innocent blonde lock
That dances to the tunes of gravity and breeze
Swirling like the smoke of some grandfather pipe
That dissolves in thin air with siesta ease
Whirling like the love current of the ocean
That rents a sandful of romance on lease

Winter walks into the atrium of substance
Kisses me on my childish cheeks
Leaves a creamy green message under my skin
From the cracks of which, a blue dew drop leaks
Speaks of unadulterated juvenile fornication
Of organic cottoncandy love, it reeks

Lingering eyes come to a frozen standstill
And gulp the sunlit venom from a spoon
Rosy nose dreams of hot lovers in coil
And silently mourns the summer lagoon
Winter! You must stay with me forever
In twisted green veins and the pale veil of moon
Winter! You must leave me never
But like a lover, you must depart very soon

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Six Walled Smitten Entropy

Nations were falling and the evening carried with it a burning sensation
The city’s corruption was proper on this fine day and the pollution was on schedule too
Ignorant pedestrians whiled away, while their unborn passions vaporized unburnt
Unhurt, the government cried tears of plastic agony
Unsung, men with rifles died deaths of rangebound inhumanity
Unheard, children of pollen sang songs of shallow bodily depths
The mirror still spoke of the untold lies

We sat in the bath tub opposite to each other and yet the steamy reckoning hit us from the same side
Drop after drop the hot water washed the courtesies off of our naked skin costumes
Vapors shaped like liquid moonlight rose lazily between our motionless bodies and deeply plunged into our charcoal souls
Her detoxed eyes stripped me of my rebel, hammered my metal conscience with a warm sprinkle of sentimental rose water and everything was clean and purple again

Layers of hazy aqua curtains fell from the shower sky and engulfed our sleepy bodies into a dream made with velvet bubble promises
We purged each other of ourselves and slowly started to unweave our threaded memories
The mesh of time loosened its grip on us, for inward we spiraled beyond the concept of being
Gravity was disassembled that night and friction tasted like the spirit of love

Economics of thought was eradicated from the inventory of the mind
Brick by brick, we rearranged our cotton consciences
And kissed only when the unknown probabilities needed to be thrown off the lips

Rainless Erotic Slumbers of November

One single mattress wrapped in one double bed sheet
Two single homeothermic mammals lay sprawled on it
A closely knit airy limb mesh
Curtained by sandal scented fresh skin robes
The melodic burble of their thoughts coiling along a dream dimension
Babe lovers bathing in a fountain of tempestuous breaths

On the chest of his, locks of her
Rising and falling
A pounding heart
A restless beast
Caged by the symmetry of commercial love
His beat her puff
His huff her beat
A pure syndrome of rhythm
A watery song of innocent crests
A fierce tale of adulterated troughs

On the cheek of her, scruff of his
Embalming the taste of berry lips
In the tongue’s wild mnemonic
A pride possession of his boyish taste
A dinner reservation of she in he
Are we us? Must we RSVP?

Rapid eye concerto
In the scale of a sharp major obsession
If only I could sing you in key
Of a dark purple shy confetti

Sugary stars sprinkled
Against the backdrop of a winter lake
Dreams of green satin
Alleys aligning along their tilted town
A twinkling drought comes by
Ridding the land of cotton
A burning drought chuckles
Now ridding the sky

Ripples through an absence of clouds
Riddles of a clear blue high
Bodily manifestation of a mutual dream
Maroon evenings
Part death part moan
Part meeting of their juicy eyes

Plasma sleep gels their fantasies
In murky arrogance
Their fragrant flesh develops an appetite for passion
Suspended bodies of relaxed puppets
The blanketing warmth deepens
It plunges into the clear salty sky

I doze through a breezy salvation
For I lay with my love in naught and vain
I lay with my zesty saccharine cloud
In the land of sin, hence, it cannot rain

Lifelessness

The street’s emptiness roars at me
Waiting to throw some chores at me
I could damage my possessions
I could infiltrate my flesh
With narcotic donations
With broken dried mesh
I could draw out the images of stones
On other stones
But what use would that be?
The night would still move secretly

I could distort my shape to fit my reality
Just to stop being a recipient of pity
I could burn my skin thin
So much that the ‘color of my skin’
Stops existing as a concept
Just to put racism in debt

Hurrying on the streets is poetic madness
And dancing in the nightclubs necessary sadness
What can you achieve with having a different vocation?
What can you change by being in a different location?

While whole thoughts feel smooth in youth
Excess of grass and scarcity of ruth
Plucks, every year, your aging hair
Graininess appears as if out of nowhere
The erection of an idea
From the feminine socks of the puny purse
The eruption of mania
From the hardware box of the universe

Paper boats made out of money sail in the sky
And I buy all clouds in plain sight
Vapor threads weave the blanket of the sky
And one big cotton candy bursts into light

A Tom bomb, they call it in the west
In the east, they call it day after tomorrow
Happiness is either stolen for the best
Or borrowed and begged for, in sorrow

The Ache of the Observer

The Ache of the Observer

The observer stands still
Okay maybe not perfectly still
Add a little shuffle in the steps
Let go of all unwanted flex
In fact let go of all flex
Feel your insides like the insides of a mansion
A creative expansion
A house party for the inside; a soul’s extension
A soul’s way of killing all the unwanted tension

The observer numbs his brain
Looks down at his chain
Okay maybe there are more chains
Add a handful of default pains
Let go of all the demands too
In fact, let go of all the commands too
Feel your noodled body spiraling into the fluid floor
A lucrative lore
A lousy restlessness in the cult of human drone
An exasperated observer enunciates a moan
A woman’s way of bringing to darkness, whatever had once shone

The Red Finnish Breadsticks

The Red Finnish Breadsticks

I met a pair of mirror gypsy lips
They were breadsticks, I have a hunch
They spoke and sang and kissed and drank
Crunchcrunch, they went crunchcrunch

When the blonde sweat dripped on the red lipped stick
Her breaths went candy, her eyes ticked tick
She stood under the moon, radiating pineapple lights
She robbed the cloud of its fluffy cottonwhite
She smoked like a dark-haired hippie
She tripped in babyfrights
Her curves, colored in young lust
Spoke the language of dirtynights

We lay under the acid stars
And she spoke to me crunchcrunch
My breadsticks found her breadsticks in time
And slowly we kissed munchmunch

She stared at me with a quadratic passion
My indulgence, my teeth,
My fingers discrete,
Danced to the whims of this lady bright
Her voice box steered the paths of my eyes
As we battled in love like creatures of night

I chased a firefly for her tickling ear lobe
And she sang to me byebyebyecrunch
My eyes went moist against breeze and dope
Slippery like love and warm like brunch

In Sisterhood (Part II)

In Sisterhood

II

She stared out of the bus window to look at the graffiti studded walls of Williamsburg. Her face was a breath away from the glass. The memory of last night’s concert has disappeared into the vortex of her past. Her fingers rummaged restlessly for a small bottle of oil in her bag.

The memory of her father’s death wasn’t just fresh in her mind as she woke up in her bed; it was all there was. She looked at the only other human body in the room, that conveniently lay right next to her. A mourner. A man. A friend. A creature. I could make his death happen, she thought. If I wanted to. At this point there is no bigger imminent threat to this man, she thought, than herself. Her conscious body lying next to his unconscious body. Both alive. Yet one, infinitely more powerful. And the other rests in peaceful submission. He is my slave at this moment, she thought, just like father was a slave to his foretold death.

Through the clean glass window of the bus, she saw a wall covered in brilliant colors. Diagonally across its forsaken edges was painted the bare neck and body of a guitar. Horrifically cut strings were springing from its kohl smudged bridge. It looked like bloodbath, fresh from the studio of an instrument maker, who in a fit of life’s easier sufferings, had killed his own piece of art. He had smashed the hollow wooden body of the guitar with a sledge hammer. Then perhaps, he had taken a war knife and cut the strings in phenomenal momentums, before using that same knife to pierce roughly through the center of his chest, until the tip of the knife had slid into his beating heart just enough to bring him the only true moments of perpetual happiness that a human being is spared. The moments that lead us to death. A crystal bowl of nothingness reflecting nothing but darkness, absorbing nothing but everyone. The perpetuity of these moments can perhaps be attributed to their short lives. When does a person truly realize that death’s infinite pull has finally arrived? When the blood spurts out of their chest and fantastic sprays of shiny red fall over the body of the half-dead guitar? Perhaps, this is why in the painting on the wall, the broken guitar’s wood had pints of red paint splashed over its broken body. Her fingers suddenly stopped at the touch of the small bottle of oil.

She looked at the sunlight falling, through the mesh of three ever so slightly fluttering white curtains, on his naked back. On his naked body. The most beautiful sight that can exist. A creature; just as it were created. Some flesh, some bones. Skin tightly wrapped over it all. A quirkily packed pouch of conflicts and delusions. Colors and sounds. Another creature waiting to be inanimate. She took his hand in her hands and sniffed gently yet deeply. She pondered over the impenetrable cloud of numbness that clouded her very existence. Without her father, she was nothing but a numb creature waiting in a queue to receive death’s comforting blanket. But she felt a little ball of wilderness sitting silently at the floor of her gut, waiting to break the sane barriers of her unruly mind and make a monster of her. A monster who is not waiting for death any more. It’s asking for it. She felt a desire roaring in its gallant singularity. A desire to touch, bite, cut, fuck and consume every last piece of this man’s being. A desire to invade his very conscience, conquer his very body and finally make his identity a sinful one. A desire to make his mind corrupted by absolute loyalty. Then she dropped his hand back into the responsibility of his sleeping self, stepped into the balcony and lit a cigarette.

The bus rode through the streets in a smooth fashion. But she was not looking out of the window any more. She was looking at the open bottle of oil in her hands. She oiled her fingers thoroughly. Gently at first. Then restlessly. She poured a little pool of oil on her cupped palm. The surface of the oil pool reflected her face ridden in anxiety. She varnished and rubbed and interlocked her fingers in tension and rest. She inhaled the chilly smell that rose from her palms as the oil seeped into her pores and slid heavily through the microscopic curvy ridges on her fingertips. The ones that had touched several bodies yearning for love, but had found that love instead from the keys that, under the weight of her fingertips, had brought upon the world, melodies that documented her true pain of being one. Just the one. The bus came to a gradual halt. She stepped out in the sun and stood still for a moment. The remnants of the unabsorbed oil shone over her palms, like blood shines on the hands of a murderer right when they begin to relax in the absolute affirmation that death had struck their sweet victim and their errand had come to an end.

She looked at the muddy road that was right under the balcony. A flux of vendors, pedestrians and kids made their way through the road. Carefully dodging one another, naively merging into each other. A fresh platter of creatures for death to tastefully prey on. She exhaled a puff of smoke, spit forcefully out of the balcony and turned around to see the man in the bed moving. Twisting and turning his way into reality. Yawning and stretching his way into consciousness. She merely looked at him with love and disgust, maybe a hint of kindness too. Then she walked over to the side of the bed, put her bare foot over his bare back and rolled him over to expose his bare chest. He woke up with a startle. Full consciousness flushed through his body. No more power bias, she thought. “When did you wake up?” he asked. She merely looked at him. He took her hand in his hand and asked, “How’re you holding up?”. She smiled at him, held his gaze for two moments and then bent down to pierce her tongue through his half open mouth. She held his face in her hands and kissed his mouth in deep devotion. He tastes of sleep, his saliva, my saliva and tobacco, she thought. She held his head tighter and kissed him deeper, licking the back of his tongue with the tip of her tongue. I could still make his death happen, she thought. If I wanted to.

A Digit’s Purpose

A Digit’s Purpose

The quality of a pure quest is like that of a wretched coin
Distinct in value
With a promise of invisible scarring

My fingers run through the material of the crowd
The leather jackets and the wet raincoats
The scarves
The scented apparels
Amalgamating flesh and material
Lifelessness is just a right touch away
And my fingers yearn for motifs of death
Like a woman’s heat
Yearns to align a man’s cold soul
As the wind’s feet
Tickling the flame of the candle
Blue at its heart
Orange in attire
Basks in compliments
Of dark unlit patches
And wooden corners of the room

And beside you, the candle becomes a powerless entity
It throws a handful of dim yellow on your forehead
And becomes an object of minimal purpose

An infinite amount of grey density lives low in this room
Like smoke crawling on wet mud

Life erupts from the inside of your flesh
Life ceases to exist at the surface of your skin

It is my will to live then
And my motif of death
That makes my touch an act of survival
And then I hold you
And then madness wraps itself around me

In Sisterhood (Part 1)

In Sisterhood

I

The curtain rises. There’s a piano. An empty spotlight cone. And in walks the pianist.

The last people paid their respects and left the room. Under the sudden absence of murmurs and sobs, the silence strained. Like a metal rod being slowly bent beyond its fracture limit. She looked at the table atop which were her father’s ashes in a brown earthen pot. Yesterday a person, today a pile of dust waiting for its absolution in the holy water. The salty air of Kolkata lingered casually by the little open window. The wood studded room shone of her father’s late craftsmanship and smelled like the polish of his passion. His passion to scrape. To carve. To create the most beautiful angles. Wood was like his flux of life and this room, his final words.

Chatter dies as she cracks her knuckles. The intro creeps in like a thin drip of water flowing down the crack in the ceiling, along the walls, filling the room with impenetrable destiny ahead. The melody is slow and mostly empty. During the resonated spaces, her hand gently hovers over the entire range of keys, occasionally bending to touch a few keys here and there in lazy affirmation. One can see the hint of a smirk at the portfolio of her face, bobbing ever so gently, yet never breaking contact with the motion of the fingers.

As she looked at the immovable earthen pot, lifeless like the black sky that holds the slug clouds and the flaunting stars alike, she realized how every passing moment bore some irretrievable burden of fencing holes in her reality until every color drained drop after drop. The clock ticked in black and white successions. The fire crackled lazily like a grey beast half asleep. At last, she decided that she would stand up and break out of this reverie by moving, by walking, by saying something out loud, as if physical non-conformity with the truth could alter her metaphysical reality. She looked at her hand resting on the arm of the wooden chair, but it did not move. It was as if the draining colors had, in an attempt to leave their last mark, painted her body as a picture against the canvas of the still room. And now she had lost all control over her own limbs. Death had finally caught up with her flesh and bones. She only existed as an idea trapped in a mourning room. Her rested hand held her gaze for an indefinite amount of time, before the creak of the door opening behind her sent shivers down her body, as if her mind had, in a moment of dangerous reckoning, deployed waves of anaphylactic shocks to restore her untimely half-death.

She slams her hands against the keys in peculiar fashions. One can see the hint of madness lurking from the edge of her shiny temple. The chords intoxicate the audience like a constant pump of concentrated morphine. The stillness of the chamber stands stunned, while one artist dances along the line that separates woman from beast.

She turned around and merely looked at him as if he were now a new addition to the painting of the wooden room. Clad in remorse for the most part, his eyes had hints of moist unknown emotions that made her look away instantly, almost like a survival reaction. She looked back at him, meticulously avoiding his eyes. She looked at his neck where the skin-cloth bifurcation and its calm demeanor under the white cotton fabric looked to her like a panther’s fur had been redecorated for emotional purposes. He held his pose for a moment or two, as if giving her eyes time to finish their oddly ephemeral quest. And then without notice, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, restoring full life back into the room with a thud. He walked in gently, mildly aware of his slow pace, as if allowing his feet to live every moment of touch with the wooden floorboard below him. With every step, he inched closer to her and her heart raced against all her commands. Before she could fathom the intensity of the whole process, it was over and he was standing right next to her chair. And then he put his hand on her shoulder and their skins met in the most mundane way, like when an implosion meets its source. The touch sent heavy gushes of life flooding through their bodies, while death remained lingering in the air like the scent of a woman in a room full of men.

Thunder roared across the room as if a gigantic boar of sound was shot, skinned, cut and carved into little hails of destruction and sent around a room full of deeply spellbound people, witnessing a firsthand duet between pianist and death.

His hand merely rested on her shoulder like hers still rested on the arm of the wooden chair. She thought of how her body was almost helplessly at the verge of devoting all her possessions, worldly and otherwise, to him right at this moment. Her pulse’s rhythm. Her naked heart. Her room, her chair, her wood, her hand, her crackling fire, her lost colors. Her floor under his feet. Her shoulder under his hand. Her dry eyes. Her father’s ashes.

And then she slammed at the piano one last time, a muscular stroke of beauty and torture that left its bloody fragrance on the flesh of every person who existed in that room. One can see the outline of a thick vein by the side of her neck, pulsing restlessly, resisting the onset of reality and the end of music.

She knew nothing and felt nothing in that moment. A moment of true neutrality. And yet her biased body, loose in demeanor and relaxed in emotional asphyxiation, fell to one side on the wooden floorboard.

Tyranny is the best medicine

When one stands in front of an ocean, one can truly see the powerlessness of his entity and the glory that comes with peaceful submission.
Tyranny is the best medicine
There’s that wind again
A wind that carries with it salt, sand and sadness confined within its spaces
The sea has never looked more magnificent before
Ripples and pulses
Waves and angry gushes
Heavy, harmonic and foaming with dying grey joy
It moves with the grace of an old king walking through the streets of the city he has ruled for years
Some mistake its vastness for its authority
Some breathe in the grand
Some gulp the borderline ambiguity that transcends between red horizons and black beaches
What must I do with the sadness it fills inside the walls of my body?
Bodies are boxes
Splendid structures of carefully carved out thoughts and feelings that are meant to betray every ounce of rationality one suspends from
The sea brings with it opportunities to weep helplessly and barefoot
To immerse our fluid feet in the immovable grief of sand
And investigate the effects of that grief as it encapsulates the weary fisherman, the shy sunrise and everything that precipitates in between
There’s that wind again
A wind that carries with it a lethargic magic
The kind that a street magician performs after the death of her smiling lover
I subject myself to this magic
It leaves me in a state of default lovelessness
It leaves me perpetually lovelorn
I must be punished, mustn’t I?
The waves rise in revolt against my indecent submission
They confuse my indecisiveness with stubborn non-cooperation
They mistake my motionlessness with suicidal championship
They taut the strings on me just to watch me feel the tickle of my fluorescent agony
The sea wriggles noisily, as if inviting all to come rub its belly
It watches my cheeks redden just a shade lighter than the blooming sunrise
It watches my eyes moisten with liquid salted cruelty
It watches in almost a mournful contemplation
And then laughs a beautiful laugh
Priyal Maheshwari