playhouse

a day is a playhouse of wonders
and nights, the plunder of a thief –
with stars and a sliver of a moon,
and glimpses of an unseen Neptune
bundled up, in a napkin,
out of proportion –

the paradox of understanding is that
it’s not deserved to be understood,

its smooth transitions from a muse
into a stalemate, never available
for scrutiny or viable visibility
makes it an easy target for this tense
turpitude.

we look at each other, hold hands, caress the ticking seconds
of the clock, this story doesn’t beget a climax of any sort –
semaphorism – as they call it –

of minds and hearts and innards that wobble
with the unprecedented movements of a distorted image,

a reflection is decomposing on the wall, a self is dis-
-integrating into half-bitten morsels of truth.

be it so – let the lights extinguish themselves into shadows.

.

Linking it up with Wordle#159 at MLM Menagerie and Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

Scream

The Scream by Edvard Munch

night sheds its wings-
a silent scream is heard
in dawn’s deep breath

~

pronounced
by the scream of a lost mind-
colors on dusk’s canvas

.

Two different images in two unconventionally written haiku, for my prompt at Heeding Haiku With HA, where we are seeking inspiration from the famous piece of art by Edvard Munch, pondering over various interpretations and coming up with our own images to depict what we feel and see. Do come along and share with us this week.

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

I think I heard them talking along these lines…

This is one of the two… “J______t”

“My eyes are screened. I had three. I have them still but I can not see. I changed a lot from the colour of sun bathing grass to that of wet sand… and all that I wish now is to see”

“I think you can make up for it by revelling in the benefits of each of your organs.”

“Do you talk about my coarse hair over hard epidermis, those wretched fronds, or my grease; well you sure don’t talk about my milk. Do you? They are not for me. All I have for me are the eyes that I wish I could open and go fish.”

“Ah! You rhyme so that I feel it in my seeds.”

“And do they stick within your fruit and reach those humans when bulbs of your yellow flesh, they do pick?”

“Yes. But they know how to get rid of it.”

“My green, prickly love; how I envy thee and your clinging to the life source, the life-tree. Your heart beats with the earth. I am forlorn having fallen off, sitting atop the sand. I have forgotten the story of my birth.”

“And how I despise the way they stab me and when they wash away my sticky love. I am the pieces in the curry while you form the base of it.”

“How does it matter? We become the food that they eat and into their stomachs we go, giving to the world our last bow.”

“I am rather glad that we are picked off. Wouldn’t it be befouling that despite of our benefits for them, we remain ignored? I say I love those vegetarians.”

“You do. So I do. I feel their arrival. May be they will first remove my blindfold and let my pearl white entrails gaze at the sky so I could cry.”

“And there you go. I shall wait. My turn would come when my entrails would kiss their hands. Goodbye friend.”

~

The spot of the sand where the one who wanted to see rested was left with a hollow, a single long brown dried hair bequeathed by him to the past he left for, for the present, was left in the wake.

“Kalpataru…” A song lasted forever in the wind.

.

For Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. Can you guess the names of the “two people” in conversation here? I have already provided the photo of one.

Image source