a jazzin’ kind of night

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© Anmol Arora

free-handed percussions — nightly detours
into amatory affairs — touch and wiggle —

the ambient smell of stale booze, fresh-smokes
on their breaths, a chandelier dripping with light,
bursting and blooming into the eyes,

sax and guitar, reverberating desires, up and loud —
the head nods that leave no room for improvisation.

the fingers find their way to the sequestered spots,
recognizing the rising heat in the night-time breeze,

my nips attentive to words grazed against my neck
along the sternocleidomastoids (the tumescence and
detumescence palpable in a cloth traveled melody) —

the blues rise in a leaf-like cadence, my heart palpitates
to the response of my thighs (shuttered, caving all within) —

freehanded percussions, nightly detours that settle
all that rises, as the lights expand in a cross-rhythm,
chaotic, high-rising, groping, grabbing, pulling, spilling,

tinkling down my spine.

 

© Anmol Arora 2018

For With Real Toads’ Notebook Poetry: I do not know if my writing is even comprehensible — I do write in my notebook at times but mostly it’s when there is a rush of a particular thought or experience and I have to jot it down — so my pen glides all over the page in its need to capture all of it in a jiffy before it extinguishes to nothing — I have taken my time in penning this one down after typing it primarily with a few non-intrusive edits. Ha! As for the poem, I have used the precise terms for a particular reason which delves into the biological aspect, to distance it from desire or want. Hope it doesn’t hinder the experience.
Also linking it with the Poetry Pantry at PU.

***
I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

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october harvest

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full — filling
almost,

the kettle boils over, steam
wafts over the pressure cooker,
lights blooming against
an old, knowing darkness,

i pick the depth of my bones,
figure the way around this garden
— a home – complete – almost —

cornucopia days and directions
bursting free, the breaking of an abundant
repository of tradition and belief —

individual,
irrational,
institutionalized.

so i pick the other half —
a bottomless vessel, pitless fruit,
spilled over milk,
dried-up leaves,
and a toothpick-sized
awareness, of all that is.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Cornucopia#1 by Lidia Kaminski)
For Midweek Motif at PU
Edit: Also linking it up with dVerse OLN

***
I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

breakdown

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the entry to the path of sorrow
begins with a moon-shaped tear,
a fissure made the exact measures
of guilt and trepidation —

the leaves are brown, shades
of evil intermixed with erased
shadows of hubris, the roots
extend to the edge of mindful
games, that we play and lose
against ourselves,

lifelike patchwork is the center-
fold to this closet-like space,
where any form of easement
into the wing and skin of things,
takes a toll on what keeps a breath
functional, carrying on the treble,

silver-busy emulations of the past
take the form of ghosts that come
out only in day-light, and work their
ethereal way through the doors
and dreams, the greed-eyed arrows
fixing, breaking disciplined griefs,

i have elsewhere to go, nowhere
to belong, enough of the calendars
and clocks have been spent, rendered
useless in the loss of feelings,

i gather exits to stop all my blind deeds
from recurring, and shut the banners in,
becoming the equipment of toil, to find
some need of listlessness, the coal-fire-
red glow spreading in criss-cross patterns,

as the ongoing landslide
is felt (the ground i tread upon in
beleaguerment slipping away)
before its coming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The Beauty Is In The Breakdown Painting by Kevin Cross)
For MLM Menagerie’s Bonus Wordle

Also Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

death of a faerie

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the ancient faerie, with her
golden wings coming off
the hinges,

flicks away the sheath of
rich-grey hair
that have fallen (in love) over
her strong, stooped shoulders.

she puts away the dust-
pan and awakens through
her rusted iron-ore wand-
hand (single-spaced, spelled,
sustained),

an apparition of her
youth, her dark-eyed
energy of yesteryears

— the pneuma that always finds its
return, inwards,
outwards,
back to its source —

a golden woman, a silver lifeline,
and the womb of death,

the midnight carriage moving
towards
an unflinching,
hundred-wrinkled,
time-bound
end.

© Anmol Arora

For With Real Toads’ Un-Fairy Tales
Image source (Willem De Kooning’s Woman II (1952))

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

unsuitable

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orange-tiled huts,
an embankment with an ice-cold
touch,

like the swish of air
beneath the door,
taking hold
over the ankles,
in the grip
of
a tightening resolve —

the scene of this stillness
is unsuitable
for my silver-
spooned, steel-proofed
bathroom,

adrift with
the violence of
hair-falls, slippery soaps,

and the languid heat of
a late summer’s threatening tone
in a lonely play.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Bathroom Windowsill by Una Sealy)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

unlocked


why do i live here
in this key-
holed place?

the lock always unlocked,
and grooves unmatched in their
slick gestures,

welcoming in ignorance,

the key of kinship
bearing weights.

i don’t carry bread
nor its baskets,
i remain a shadow of
5-letters,

holding my name…

— a butter-knife —

spreading relations,
consuming every morsel
of belonging.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source
For With Real Toads’ Camera / Flash 55
Also linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

employability

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dark rivers with dark waters
of sweat and turmoil —

the working-class in matching
tie-sets and cufflinks,
consuming the last of the day
on a star-bereft-twilight.

the venus doesn’t rise
in the absence of
a sun-clad, formal
code of conduct.

they carry the stupor-filled
yesterdays, for a soot-layered
enslavement,

to corporate
culture and ctc-callous
calculations (< minimum-wage).

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Linking it up with dVerse OLN
Image source (Cloud of Imagination By Sarah Blard)

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.