surviving a circus

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the joker waits for the tingling
bell of classical conditioning
to produce the act for retaining
every measure of survival —

i had never seen the red-nosed
darling open his carnival mouth
of blood candy & enameled smokes.

he told me of a lion’s solipsism
that jumps through the hoops of
an urban jungle, quite similar to
a modern generational shift, from
a Randian objectivism to graffiti.

~

the bell is rung at the last step
of a sleepy night’s solo performance,
to wake me from a circus dream
in which i am but a rope dangling
from the canopy, for all the poor souls
to climb and escape, through
a cannibal crowd, caterwauling like
Circe in waiting.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

For dVerse Poetics: Come to the Circus!
Image source (Circus, 2011, by Leslie Bender)

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month 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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disbelief

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a sense of disbelief —

people pleasing people,
shadows falling a-p-a-r-t
in their own figurative voids

make for an entirely new
picture, atypical of agonies,
realized but not really felt.

whiteness doesn’t scare me,
lights measure my body mass
and frequency of my beats.

the ground shakes, angles
come down, and i learn to
belie that very disbelief and

know, inhaling is vital for this
and every other moment
to pass.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Deep Inhalation Of The Cosmic Breath Painting by Ganesh Bhat)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

***

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

resisting self-appropriation

larger

the demarcation of identities may become
concrete beyond any measure of trust,
suggesting a clear-cut boundary (line out of control)
set with laced edges for an open-field view of
all the action, where stars rupture, mind swells
and foot-long visiting lists and eager spectators
wait for an epiphany in their limited visage,
or form, or expression —

i could light my body, turn paper into a wildfire,
stone into an insolent air, and turn my named
references back to their semicircular beginning,
without the complexity of politics of my body
or desire, obstructing the moon to rise in its tiding,
leading to a vasectomy of all craft.

there are seeds that grow without the spurt,
some pollen have a similar quality of disdain
for birth,

and i know that i cannot open
the undisclosed aftermaths of attention
depleted into this sin, or the afterword of joy,
to become pen and ink and words.

i fuck up like a fucked up alarm clock
(going cuckoo has cuckooed and gone)
springing to its climax at inopportune
times, when even time cannot be shut-
off, visions silenced, and this extravagant
search for a home in the buried remains
of self-hood finally discarded off in
neural pathways and cardiac tunnels.

an individualized treachery is preferred
over  a displayed form of acceptance, with
its soft-toned and hard-knelling voice
that thinks that just the right tone would
change the facets left unexplored, deep
in the recesses, way away from light, because
that is all they are, in the eye of the storm
that won’t bring me down or go away on its own.

do not worry about me, do not worry
about my fiefdom of lust and loss,
or my faces split open one by one,
little by little, without hurt and pain,

as the death’s wagon parks at my retina,
harnessed by my sleepless eyes,
and i wake, and i wake, and i breathe,
galloping through, breaking away
from all the signs.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

I wonder if the intersection of self-appropriation and poetry suggests a kind of depravity. Nonetheless, it is for me a kind of resistance to even consider the same — it is supposed by the experience of letting it be the subject as well as the object of observation. Perhaps “my act of understanding” is flawed but it is as honest as it could be in the current struggle. Is it failing the internalized resistance or is it resisting the resistance?!

For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge — quite a challenge indeed;
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU as well.

Image source (id Painting 27, 2015 by Mark Wallinger)

At least, we have Chopin and Brigitte Engerer’s playing available online.

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

a sunset song

the-banquet-magritte
through my bespectacled eyes,
i cannot pinpoint when the orange
turns to blush, or when the savage
evening bares its blunt fangs for
a final feeding, and still, i am
engrossed in the spectacle of
this agitation, or the sense of
its happenstance, its belief —

a half-dead day looks down on
its own destiny, of consumption
without pleasure. my pink-gold
lips flutter in this breeze that is
no breeze and i hear the drop
of a celestial bell, coming
into being,

purple sights cartwheel in this
shadow-scene.

where do you go from here?
where do you find a colorless sunset
for your blindness?

left behind —

a nightless mood
revels in this pause, that goes on
and on,

as survival hangs by the toe-nail
of a petrified sky, pure in the pale-
horror, turning into

ashes, tears, and
undesired rebirths.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

For The Midweek Motif at PU
Image source (Magritte’s The Banquet)

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

death of a kiss

the_dark_kiss_by_eitherangel
unearthed trinkets of lust
taken by my lips —
bitten —

bitumen of the roads left
behind —

quick-quirky-beats rise quickly
like moon-quivering-tides.

drink one on me, through me,

as i

taste the memory of your
kitschy kiss,
hear a silver sun’s silence,
left undisturbed,

ululating — dying.

.
© Anmol Arora 2018

For dVerse Quadrille # 64
Image source (An interesting reproduction and interpretation of Klimt’s The Kiss)

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

don’t stay

dionbefore-the-dusk-e1386273531465
the lights go off in the section where
dusk meets the dark tidings of time
– limitless, engorged, stagnant –
whites to become whole at
this juncture of hope,
where no one stays
when shutters
have closed
down.

don’t
stay now
either, since
my unslept dreams
resound in emptied-
out hollows of the mind —
all that was sought, to be lost,
has been found at a decried end,
where staying is no longer in need.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

For With Real Toads’ Fussy Little Forms, where Nonets are the order of the day
Image source (Before the Dusk by Dana Dion)

***

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

moving on

 

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you are lost, as i lost
in your loss.

the seas of time have come ashore,
flooding and taking away all that
remains —

you were once there, drinking
the moon wine (it is you who
brought me the white for a late
dinner), and addled potions of
a lone star at my lone window,

it’s at the end, that it all began,
the turbulence of words (said
and unsaid) created voids, built
of a few nights’ fantasized storms,

you made me see the fire-glass
that only showed your visage,
your eyes growing pit-wise, you,
yours only – form and facsimile –

and i knew that i did not have to
leave, because you were not there,
never meant to be, and so it was —

a singular bulb fuse that flickered
out, into the emptiness of the room.

~

© Anmol Arora 2018

More of a frustration than a heartbreak — For dVerse Poetics
Also linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

And I somehow found something to go with it. Ha! Image source (Light Headed 3 by Leah Saulnier)

***

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