a dark communion

the crow perched on the black railing,
our dark eyes confronted each other
for a moment,

he thought it to be inconsequential,
looked hither-thither and flew away
in a gust of air, that hung before me,
leaving a trance-like image,
right before my difficult breath,

if i were him, i would have done away
with it, but his nonchalance
only made me wary
of my own condition,

i am burning without fever,
i am shivering without cold,

the food has lost its flavor,
water, its pungent taste,
to drench the morsels of belief,

what if

this was it, this is it,
this would be all —

this unremarkable grey sky
reduced to my grey vision,
my pudgy, little fingers
no longer capable,

every thought bursting in its own smoke –
left-over chunks of an explosion –

this wrecked structure, this unused
view —

would i be afloat
when i fall?

~

© Anmol Arora 2018

For Midweek Motif at PU
Image source

***

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.

what i think when i think about myself

the unembellished glass on my window
is not of a reflecting kind, it changes color
with the sun’s brow, disguised by its own
retention of what hitherto it did beget –

when i think about selves, i mirror
the glass of my window, and pluck apples
from my eyes to taste the sense of sight,
and single out every experience in its own light,

when i think about lives, i snigger
like the loony bark of the mutt outside, and push
into the so-called oblivion, a thought to right
the wrongs of being one of a kind, of this plight,

when i think about you, i am triggered
by your mirror of my own life, and try to pick
from your eyes, any sign of a comic relief, to indict
myself for subsumption of an egotistic delight,

when i think about myself, i quiver
like the potent wine of the sky outside, and pull
out from my own self, a torn thought to site
every memory, to extinguish into the night.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif

Photo edited through Instagram and Prisma

Contact me: Instagram, Facebook, Gmail

*Linking with dVerse OLN

id

I exist in the voices,
in sounds-

gentle, ricocheting against
the loud bass in the background
and speaking in hushed tones
in corridors where the tiles
are no longer bleached white.

I exist in that TV volume, defined
by the bars that identify the
intensity of my intent,

exist in the grrr grr grinding
of thoughts into an unpalatable
mush, that I got served for
dinner,

I am defined by the water striking
the s(k)in(k) surface, I am that

you no longer pay attention to,

that justice which engorges rationale/ a beast appears- I am a vampire (Part 2)

 Pale face with kohl in eyes, I am on the right…

a face with no color, pale that I become

in the evening when sun petals have scattered

amid the clouds, I walk through crowds showing

a glimpse of my crimson lips and dark eyes

.

people avert their gaze from me, I am peculiar

in the land of gentle folk, a bane, a truth

that no one stares at, no one has that restrain,

my palms are the sheets of days and nights

obscured in the mist of the now, I can’t escape,

my desires unfulfilled, words only creating a hum

.

as the night darkens and the owl hoot is heard

in the dazzling dance on the carpets, where we stand,

I wave my hands, take a leap like a doll extended

beyond the lines of rationale, lost in the moment

whence a shot captures me, I am a vampire,

“A picture please…”, “Oh! You look like a ghost”:

path traverses out, a new phase of life begins

.

is this that justice, showered by twinkling eyes

and nodes of narcissism jutting out of one and all

and same as me, deriving beauty in lonesome lies

.

This is the second in the series titled, I am a vampire. If it happens to be so and if the muse allows me to do so, I would like to continue further with it. You can also read the first poem in the series: justice wrought as words tumble out/ at least for now- I am a vampire (Part 1)

The above picture was clicked on our Freshers’ evening. The theme was: Halos and Horns. I had a hurried day and within a span of five minutes, I tried to mold my face into a caricature of the light and dark which resides in us. And “they” once again said that I look like a vampire. If my mouth was open, you would have got a better glimpse as to why that comment has been directed to me. 😉

The Dot of Everything

 

I pick molding moss off of my scalp,

glistening when its dark and not light,

rising to create a supernal hologram

of the spaces between sulci and gyri,

the space that is of insanity that agitates

the fragments of artist that once was,

now shattered in me, its ashes spread.

.

I suck on my thumb for palliative notions

to satiate the thirst for earnest ecstasy

and swirl my left index finger through

a gaping hole in my stomach, tinging

it red, singing like a wren of grave

tendencies for my perplexing mind, to

agitate the beast to growl, to tear me apart.

.

My hair get singed by the graphics of sun,

scorching every emotion into amber

which deems it necessary for me to drench

entirely this body, and wipe away slippery

skin, to bring out what has been hidden

beneath, tattooed red on peeling bones,

keeping me buoyant in lakes of introspection.

.

For Wordle # 8 at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. Also linking it up with With Real Toads Open Link Monday.

Image source