waking up,
riding through
a dream’s galloping pace,
i wonder
if i bypassed my need
to be touched,
strung like a kite
against the face
of a shy-sky —
his eyes an empty-colour of opportunity, my skin,
a canvas bled —
the night lingered
like a lizard, in the thrall of a fly,
hovering over my lips.
© Anmol Arora
A 55-er for Art FLASH at WRT
Read screwed
.
the centerpiece —
pvc ceiling, lilac. honey-
mustard edging across daft
corners, hibiscus’ death of
colors, trimmings of desire
into drunk deals ~
~ wait it out. it turns blade-grey
and coughdrop-red, sequent-
ially, hear that song of bro-
ken lines & fickle curves
of the gluteal
— enfold,
when it turns bloody
and swift – breaks,
blues, gallows, dies –
.
Image source: Dutch Interior II, Joan Miro
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.
love’s bulge seems to be pretty abundant-
lewd words weave a fulcrum of all dreams, wet to touch,
sweet-bitter tones serenade the ears, a silent breath
grazing the neck with a scimitar of nefarious thoughts,
don’t speak, just do the unspeakable, the unmentionable
with a velocity of a soaring plane, upending us into submission,
this is the art work people gawk at and fail to encompass
into any coherent knowledge, its deprivation, its salvation,
spilled paint is the canvas for this action filled space, love is
swallowing its saliva and thick puddles of misery foam at those
silent, nurturing lips. your mouth is my mouth is your mouth.
let’s do it. let’s unmake love.
.
Image source
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif
Also read this: this vulgar handiwork of time and let’s draw blood
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