eyegame #1 : the crisis

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eyes in utter
impoverishment
desperately
searched yours
in an awaited
mergence

but when they met
in an instant
dramatic act…

mine threw away
from focussing
yours’ drawing
magnetic ones

…out of ?

perhaps
a combobulated
mixture

of infinite craving
and intense love
masked
in just opposing
demeanours

of a racing self-disperal
of an enacted ignorance
of quickened movements

but why?

when the need
was in embracing
your rendezvous

Just wondering
if the same chaos
dug you so deep
and  sweet bitter
stirring a crisis

this

love

[it’s] ‘warring’ past

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bitter frost of “it’s” past:
ulterior vermins, absolute
venomous in any reminiscence
and worse, masked themselves
invisible in a guerrilla warfare

..the grips gotten all over it, crept in
asphyxiating until its emptied out
desiccated core..trying all ways-
their typical ugly-tactical
squeezing seizure, these gangsters

it’s expected inglorious fall
in sweat and chilling discomposure
..was as trystful a clinical neverfoundland
as was their utmost distressing retreat
in lunatic-ally dismayed forfeiture

work-in-progress, the gift

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her orange box

needs work, a
final touch, you

know, perhaps
surprise inclusions, an
indigo wrap in selection

a purplish satin ribbon
in whitish heart out blurbs

with a customary
stick-tag overall

the red cloth
stuffy bear
doesnt seem
to be one
till now

her will
is at place
at pace

time: a
notion, a
currency

don’t
shame
her

love

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Quotes for Quenching – 14

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black-n-red: An inspired Write from the Reblogged Poet

black-n-red
are “the”colours…yeah. pretty
beautifully fatal
one could not walk away, but need
to cut through..sooner
or later. the amoebically pulsing
truth of abstractions. If not

for their alluring darkness
and passion, what
was life worth for
in its living while dying, or more
of a death lived
uncomplaining

in a deepfound elemental
serenity
discounting those hyped up
geometrical rays, streamlined
in lightful illusion existing
as heavy magnified lies

Dirty Window Pane Poetry - An Experiment

“She showed up, tragic and beautiful, with a kind of necessity for which I was grateful to her. She was wearing a dark red dress, and a very pretty black hat with a net, which gave her a fateful look – the look of a woman still young but already marked by life.” – Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters to Sartre

A look to the sky and my eyes could not tell the difference between the light that stood before me, and the one that hovers above all our days. I stood immediately in awe of the rise that comes in rays through the blinds: My mind quickened, “She must like tea, why have I not readied tea already.” She could read my elated spirit, for I basically spoke to her of it from the doorway as I sent out the telegram about how she got me reflecting on the way I stood…

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shackled, in the bitter breaths of a bleeding past

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as she descended down the striped
metal steps so swinging
up and down like a hung standby ladder
by her lightweight steps swollen above
with heavyheartedness,
the terrace free airs thinned
to almost nonexistence
though slow-swayed copious
of still Moringa canopies, choking
her with such unadulterated
crocinous bitterness

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unlike the instantly flashing
Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s words:
” It was inevitable: the scent of bitter
almonds always reminded him
of the fate of unrequited love.”
these oleiferous leafiness
scratched afresh
past hypocrisies
and loaded vengeance
that backstabbed,
all in the name of love

But then again
his words that dug in
subsequent
gripped befitting:
“…time was not passing…it was turning
in a circle…”,
when her caged birdheart
struggled frequent
in the clutches
of past episodes
that stuck as prolonged
feverish tonguebuds
neither burnt out nor high
but floated as persistent
unweeded thorny stubs
seeded deep down
the windpipe until beatenup
lungs shrunk, cornered
in disarrayed clumpy mess

her prematuredly scribbled wall of a wise artistry

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sandwiched
like an impossibility

between
the mysteriously familiar
‘angerest ghost’
like my own colorful shadowface
of an ‘inquisitive ‘ nomadic soul

and the symbolic demon
inner, that haunted and still did
in fluttering paintingles
of an asymmetrically-birthed
butterfly
with lopsided abdomen
and crookedly
spiraling-in sensors

she wisely? tucked in
“our happy home”
just where we three lived
hoping against hope
swimming in the inhaled freedom
of a dangerously lived life

enshrouded more in peace of darkness
of our own sprawling human selves
and but the many unsettling hands outside
that tried curbing
by flickering torches
in disguise of penetrating sunrays

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there we were
where we existed
beyond existence

how well the little girl
picturized

this enormity
of lightness in the gaining