time capsule

the-past-is-present-ellen-brook

all these years erased, memories faded
to blots of ink&dust (rewritten and smudged

in/by a whirlwind of a mind)

nothing is real (nor unreal) in an unchanged sun’s
beckoning light, that falls cold
on the fullness (red pulp &orange rind) of my ripe skin.

this air is not the air that carries
voices &smells across the plateau of another time.

years that were gone/erased —

i never left, never became
a person (more than a hollow bone &pain)
never knew of my left side from right —

as i enter the body
i left behind,
it opens —

dreams drained of any colour, swallowed portions
of rotting needs, all figure in my deadpan speech,

all slow motions to a dead end, as in a little disk of a film,

b&w, sepia, deepening into monochrome lines,

breathing, talking, ageing
but not alive.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The Past is Present by Ellen Brook)

Linking it up with my prompt for dVerse Poetics on Portals

of a broken time

this evening’s hands are tied
to a clock ticking away
in perpetuity,

as there are countless soil kernels,
all residing in a (p)inch of land
for me,

there are countless evenings,
all lined up in the curve-length
between

the uni-
verse & (t)here.

perhaps the clock is broken.
perhaps i am writing to a time
that never occurred.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 19
(Inter)National Poetry Month

a speculative turn of reality

Mapplethorpe - Flower with Knife

Robert Mapplethorpe, Flower With Knife, 1985 © Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation

 

sprigs and wigs go hand in hand
in this land of pedicured fantasies –

chocolate dreams waft out of bloody maries
(a proletariat comeuppance of the burgeoning
bourgeoisie)

no one tastes the animal blood, no one the earth’s bounty,
hungry and drunkards are of one kind,

rainbows spiral out of control,
and kill millennials (aka aliens)
in their soft-cornered
tucked-in beds,

age reverses into itself,
time sticks to a legal quagmire –

murders’ divorce nullified, spoken of like Neverland
portobello treats,
unyielding-

this is the land of the forlorn and the free,
take a swig
and get going.

.

A relatively shortened piece for the Spec Fic poetry prompt at With Real Toads. As fictions are most often modeled after reality, so is this verse.

Image source

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this vulgar handiwork of time

 

the cigarette butt gets charred in his fist,
his belt sneaks out of a loop
penetrating the orifices of the wind.

she complains of the food not cooked well,
to hell with the homie, since the mad uncle of
KFC is so hypnotic, handing out lollipops,
but not to the random connoisseur sitting
at the roadside, muttering abuses of
disproportionate shapes and sizes.

where there is sanity, there are decapitated
fingers tapping on lurid screens, lapping to
the other side 5 kms away, 100 meters are
too desperate, after all.

who wouldn’t want to suck the lactating nipples
of this evening, and
bite into the rhetoric flesh of silence that
encloses this open-to-all soirée.

we are not indelible, nor are we buttressing unsaid
fetishes in our guts, so why bother about it,
shadows won’t question, lights would, but for that
we are left clinging to these lampooned lamp posts.

there is always another evening, let’s keep our end
of the bargain after all,
there is always another evening, let’s stay desolate
once more.

.
Linking it up with Poets United

a story circles seeking an end

the rise and fall of a dog’s paws as it leaps

through the night, beneath the chill settling

on the shoulders, the summer drawing to

a close, an ending of all that enraptured

my thought, the fire extinguishes again in

the pinch of my thumb and forefinger, time

seems to be turning on my path again, I

can smell its perfume, a plot of my dreams

a movie seen on the TV one lone morning

the past tingles my skin and I wink, repeat

the steps once traversed, crumbling beneath

soon the land will run out and a trench formed

and a true end that be, the black dog heaves,

my feet take me to places unknown (yet known)

ubiquitous eyes trace all that happens, that is,

the fates die by my touch, diffusing into the blurs,

I turn into an Effigy, the moon howls, dreams sleep

.

Image source

The writer has the right to tell his tale in symbols.The reader has the right to see through those symbols as a part of his own tale.