baavramallah
baavra mallah
there comes the art taking birth somehow but we, we can't realize it.
how would we? only when art is having enough space to grow and bloom.
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The Sapien urge to break their hearts
Can we carry any analysis to any of it? Can our memory data haunt us to the depth of what we feel and comprehend and seal in a moment of a kiss with your beloved at the coffee shop?
It has been ages since I suffered a moment of departure. We all carry numerous memories of winters and upcoming summers and seasonal heartbreaks. We rupture and carry everything, the shambles and the broken rocks trying to identify their mother emotion in my chest. Love it is. Love resides and rise and subsides. We live and die with every of it but aren’t aware of how we break one by one.
It was…
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Charcoal Dust
it's a life-moment you were creating without knowing that nothing can be a masterpiece until you stare at it and realise.
It’s always the window; to a moment or a lifespan in a minuscule of a breath,I have lived somewhere. The time crosses by and you realise how closed you’ve become or how far you’ve come; are you a ship in a metaphor without realising anything?
The remembrances haunt you in a sweet melody dipped in charcoal dust cutting through the gaps of your teeth and you’d chew it, bite it and smile. Let it…
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Aquaponic spinning wheel. Wow! Yes interesting sci fi proto type for a massive space station.
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100% your insanity. Who'd plug it off?
100% your insanity. Who’d plug it off?
You plug off the cable. 100% your phone.
100% your insanity. who’d plug it off?
the static electricity would kill your peripherals in a way, you’d pick salt in place of sugar.
oh but you’re a ghost, you can haunt the present. we all are shadows of our static interferences, are we not?
” you’d stop writing ” my head says while writing this.
and why the hell shouldn’t we be silent?…
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Red velvet paper They ask me about the red velvet paper and scribble o'er it.Though they would find a reason but not shallow enough to scribble that soft.
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In the unpreparedness for love
In the unpreparedness for love
a #blogpoetoast
How the fog occurs in the morning, unprepared for the smog.
Why’d the difference between both of them change anything that goes down my lungs?
How the unpreparedness for the latter changed many things.
How the unpreparedness for love, won them all.
Love, in all the conditions, stays.
It can be silenced but not erased.
It’s not the ghosts of love which haunts us, it’s the…
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a talk with my ghosts
a talk with my ghosts
“ I keep on talking to myself “, they tell me. They wanted to tell, I’m not the normal one and after a few years later, I discovered Radiohead singing “ I don’t belong here “; only then I could feel relieved.
Relieved from what though? From the verbal utterance of an ill-nurtured theology?
“ I am a writer. I do things this way”, I talk sometimes just like that. How well crafted god form I am.…
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69 & O
It is a metaphor. A dull, monotonous dial tone. I used to listen to it for a long, long time until it disconnected itself. Like men do. But I’m still there. On the other side. Waiting.
It lurks, this upsidedown number. And appears to busy itself when I look its way. Until it has made eye contact with me. The moments between us used to be filled with possibilities. Now, they just blink like a cursor. And I watch it blink, but I won’t reach out to type. There are no words. There never were?
It followed me on my phone, and the laptop, those days. This 69. I gave it meanings - some decided, some new. What a typical crab he is, I thought. The yin to my yang? What would our mouths on each other’s genitals feel like? Are we stuck in each other’s karmic cycles?
Leave me alone, I’d scream inside my head and look away. The memories grew thinner, the exchanges wearisome and all was but forgotten until it came again. Not gushing, but surreptitiously.
Enter parallel reality.
I ruffle his hair and rub his lower lip with my thumb. I light him with my own fire. Willingly proffering myself to crackle and burn to a wisp. Deadened with lupine consumption. Yet, there blooms a pearl of innocence, learning to flow thick and glossy and dark like blood.
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home
when was the last time you hollowed thy eyes and read your mind?
do you remember the very sense of belonging or it has hollowed thy pain?
when was the last time, thy questions stopped emerging?
were you blunt or in control?
were you at peace or the structure of chaos surrounded your smoking lobes.
were you at peace or in pieces, when the silence of balcony couldn’t manage to settle the lights and…
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