Excerpt from Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective: A picture of our torn up praise- Aakriti Kuntal

a picture of

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal

Your absence is a theater. I grow disproportionate in it.
The winding and unwinding of curtains.
Warm air circulating through my face.
I imagine your body is no more a landscape.
That now it’s a home. A home with
movements and sounds and occupants.
Your arms stretching your lover’s slender body
into a lunar eclipse,
tirelessly eroding my feeble song. My tiny insignificant memory.
There’s been no word from you. Not even a sound.
It is as if your mouth transformed into a black hole
and took the rest of you too.
And I,
only I walk inside it.
Retracing my steps to see if I can
find any palpitating remains of us.
Anything, anything at all
that would explain
these patterned nights, these long long pauses in daylight.
How life has blatantly refused to comply anymore .
And how it has floated to some corner
of the nether sphere
where the sole thought of you is celebrated in adamant silence.
Where even you would now be barred from entering.
Where only I sit
with our sick wobbly songs sprawled all over my lap.
My lucid legs dancing to the tune of your voice.
Widening into a continuous void.
All stars, all planets sucked in.
And I, I all alone,
All alone by myself baby
thinking about us.
Thinking of this throbbing universe of
endless possibilities where we could just not be.

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Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.


 

Untitled-Aakriti Kuntal

Drop by drop, blood almost kills itself. Emerges again, both suicidal and invigorated. It searches for the wall, the boundary, the line. The curve of the jaw of life, the part where the teeth settle into a semblance of quietness, of poise and the part where the tongue roams, pure flesh, pure desire, pure urges, pure suffering. Blood becomes foreign to itself, its many parts just hanging, limp, lipid, senseless and insane. Blood screams in the valley of the undiscovered, the unknown, the submerged. How can one possibly express that which cannot be ascertained, that which palpitates in the tongue and the throat and the vein and the leg, that which sings and pukes, that which is both nauseated and devoted, that which never dies but also never lives, that which rises forth along the centre of a blade of grass, that which exclaims absolute joy but also that which only knows how to scream and scream it does until it isn’t life and death duelling, but death and life against death and life.

The Weeping Song- Aakriti Kuntal

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal
If I must now,
now that the whole sky is molten
carcasses of marigolds and water lilies
I’d do it
I’d open my mouth wide and scream
Then you couldn’t deny it
even if you wanted to
My body of cerulean flakes
As it would pile upon your
white lotus skin
and dance to the tune of your breath
I’d declare my love
to the solemn face of a downward facing sky
The blunt face of cold utensils,
their inherent apathy for all bleeding things
I’d pick you off long scrawny windows
rocking
beneath my rectangular eyelid
and ship little parts of my being overseas to you
Tell you that I’m here, smiling,
long and overgrown in this useless body
Watching all these dead parts hum in vain


Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

A picture of our torn up praise- Aakriti Kuntal

a picture of

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal

Your absence is a theater. I grow disproportionate in it.
The winding and unwinding of curtains.
Warm air circulating through my face.
I imagine your body is no more a landscape.
That now it’s a home. A home with
movements and sounds and occupants.
Your arms stretching your lover’s slender body
into a lunar eclipse,
tirelessly eroding my feeble song. My tiny insignificant memory.
There’s been no word from you. Not even a sound.
It is as if your mouth transformed into a black hole
and took the rest of you too.
And I,
only I walk inside it.
Retracing my steps to see if I can
find any palpitating remains of us.
Anything, anything at all
that would explain
these patterned nights, these long long pauses in daylight.
How life has blatantly refused to comply anymore .
And how it has floated to some corner
of the nether sphere
where the sole thought of you is celebrated in adamant silence.
Where even you would now be barred from entering.
Where only I sit
with our sick wobbly songs sprawled all over my lap.
My lucid legs dancing to the tune of your voice.
Widening into a continuous void.
All stars, all planets sucked in.
And I, I all alone,
All alone by myself baby
thinking about us.
Thinking of this throbbing universe of
endless possibilities where we could just not be.

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.


 

Excerpt: A Room So Still and Quiet It Hurts/Warped Kites- Aakriti Kuntal

Long hands, circumcision of thought, 

Flailing flesh, fish sucking the rotten sea

The window breast is now red from approach 

We hang there, we do

the captivity of bleached air is like nothing else

the death sentence of genes

Godless children of a different race

Our hearts are split and our brains feverish

slowly descending, soaked head to toe

into songs that contain only air

I twist the lock, your twisted face, a warped kite

Floating across ceilings,

You have decided to spread

a smile wide as the day, light up the dim structure of your face

Like blow torches growing mad above the taste of ashes

You have decided to smile

this one last time

And the ceiling watches,

its silence repulsive 

And the walls judge,

their jabber exhausting

Men like to slaughter what they don’t understand 

Common cold doesn’t dictate cancer

And neither mood nor perspective is the predecessor of mental sickness

The floor watches,

stained in a lovely red

The only living thing now 

is you

and you, you bleed 

Upwards into a cerulean sky