Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

These faces are dabbed with cotton melodies A quiet banshee stirs, her fluttering lunar gown sweeping stars, a hose inundating burnt lungs I am clockwork, spindles and needles, against an atmosphere of blooming black, My stomach, rigid thistle , begins to part near the right quarter, slowly undraped, layers of skin are layers of dust, they have never been otherwise except in the eye, the eye of this fool I stand like justice, blemished my soft arms are weighing scales, a moth in the left, a moth in the right Moth, green, orgasmic fields swaying in mustard warmth, incantations of breath Moth, red, tickling, spoons of liquid blood levitating, shaved twisted jaws I scratch the language on my volatile croissant chest, tongues like ribbons hurrying in the directions that escape this world into iota, all perceivable realms like a swiveling staircase in these sedimented bones I swing, blinded, suffocated, an…

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