Breath-is-relative-to-time by Aakriti Kuntal

Wind presses against my feet

Crevices are moments too

moments of walking, walking,

running, grinding, running

I dreamt that I’m a treadmill

Life running with her long legs 

Her long legs too long for my retreating skin

You said that time is convoluted

Like a robin in frenzy, scissors binding skin

You said, across floating dreamless states

of my rotating head, you said that time 

is a disaster, that everything is already washed

Blank white, crepe folding in fingers, 

fingers outrunning air, always trying to grasp at inevitability 

You said with cerulean lips, diamonds engulfing skies

amidst shores of blue, sparkling blue, sitting inside a stray boat,

humming inside grand oceans

You said that all life is just a long heavy breath

Go slow


Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-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.

The Weyward Sisters: Back to Black/ Collaborative Amy Winehouse Tribute

Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning

Oh, Amy

Whenever I go walking

In my stilettos,

I hear you talking.

Dream me up a way

Of swishing my hips

And pursing my lips

And singing your riffs

So that I find beauty

Like you.

lois e. linkens

she puts her black dress on
in the dark,
anxious nails red and messy
in their early-morning artistry.
he left the candle burning
in the winter window –
vanilla and cinnamon
on a Sunday evening,
tears and vodka
on a Monday morning.
last week’s relief
breathes
into tonight’s regrets,
but the shadowy smear
on the glass
is all that is left of him.

Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Rummaging through

black air,

nauseous red nails bearing oily seas

Suffocating

existence with conversations,

conversations

with glittering nail cutters,

cracked moons

laughing hysterically in them

Conversations

of fallen boyfriends, of fallen love

Fallen being

the new being

Aurora Phoenix/Insight From Inside

She scrawls lines

up the back of her fishnet stockings

wiggly-lined intoxicated rebellion

strutting down memory lane

flirting shamelessly with self-destruction

as if, in seductive self-abasement

she may reclaim

love from a wayward lover

and from self

Kindra M. Austin

Kohl black kitty cat

Eyes

Lines stiletto sharp

Tongue dipped in honey

Wine(house), oh, Amy

Slay me

Rachel Finch/Bruised But Not Broken

Night chimes, a ringing to remind her,

She can sleep the day away, but the dark

still draws the Soul from the body.

Stars reflecting off bottles, empty, their

contents alive in her throat.

She is midnight, waking the world.

Sarah Doughty/Heartstring Eulogies

I remember how you carried your beauty like body armor, letting the world see a smoke screen, that many didn’t notice. I remember seeing the sadness beneath those wings on your eyes, the way your mouth curled into a devilish smile. I remember seeing your hair down, with those curls that lasted for miles, and how much I wanted just a tiny piece of your beauty. Your essence. Even a little piece of your ability to hold the world in bated breath. I remember your courage to stand in front of a million people and hold them under your spell. But what I remember the most is how you wore your heart on the outside and how pieces of it were broken away and lost over time, exposing you. Like a nerve within a broken tooth, you tried to insulate, but nothing could fix what you’d already lost.

1WiseWoman/A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave

Hiding in plain sight

Black song bird

Aching to be heard

Darker than the darkest shadows

Praying sacrificial hymns

Will carry away your demons

Hungry hearts rapture in melody

Enchanted with your euphony

An intentional symphony

Desperate on bended knee

Longing to be set free

Blood and wine

Cherry lipstick stains

Broken bottles

Crooked lines

Sing for us

One last time

Zelda Raville/A Sea of Illusions

Our biggest tragedy
was that
our love,
no matter
how much
there was of it
could never
draw you out
from a fatal attraction
to the depths
of your ferocious hunger
for love itself.

Christine Ray/Brave and Reckless

You shot across our heavens

a piercing silver whiskey light

your pain-soaked voice

etching a pin-up girl tattoo on our souls

We died a hundred times with you

Donning our mourning colors

we are left to only say goodbye with words

as your heartbreaking beauty

fades into black

005-amy-winehouse-theredlist

Stratospheric Seduction

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Romancing with the evening
involves
offering the body like a ritual

Streams of air
construct like rivers above the stomach
Fluids and sediments
lisping along the naval
Thighs submerged in atmospheric slush

I take my lacking fingers
and uproot the throbbing lip
of the swollen sienna
Lip crests above lip
Foreground              Underground
Potion, Lotion          Softness, Crusts, Crumbs
redness, tension, adhesives
Tenuous, elastic
dirt dust, dirt dust
agony
congruence     orgasm

Inside the circumference of the naval
a forest is lit
Tubes and tunnels of temperature unwind
Chop-chop
The lumberjack walks in arrogance
Life likes to take without permission
what it gave without permission

I inhale the slippery face of night
My nostrils cold
as mountain ranges

Life’s favorite romance is with death

© Aakriti Kuntal Image Source: superfamous.com

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The-Wrist-is-a-red-hoop-Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Hands-are-Shelves  (  Picture Series ( ii ) )

Wrist by wrist The blood sings Talking of its lives of its many births within the arching sands of death's naked breaths I hear the cackling The blood gone dry red chalk, red rocks in red teeth Dropping, falling, free fall You are Christmas curtains and curtains of red Sleek, silver rubbed on red, raw umber, burnt umber I watch, your only spectator, your faithful companion from the scales of ripped eyes I watch your face, it's wry horizon of white pus cells I know the sound of the fall, it comes to me like sex Like slow gradual hymns of pasted nights on dragging windows and walls Windmills in the mouth shredding every hint of knowledge No language enters here, particles of air standing outside, their red potato faces swollen in shame I know as I am all red A red…

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Periphery

omfg. yes.

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

These alphabets they cringe, cling and wander

Amidst clouds of circles, in the lining of all light

where the water waits and the mother awakens

These words that arrive in formations

Of distilled solitude      Shared solitude       Collectiveness

Celebrations        Points of poetry           Points of war

Points of indulgence       of conveyance      of transaction

These words that people think that they take and bring

to existence           Plants in cold rain              Talking Too much

never enough         These words they think    are tools

that carve          that emboss          that shake

These words have never been strangers, somehow

But I don’t claim to take them in these soiled arms    Ever

I’m not that alive…

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The Hidden Muse-Aakriti Kuntal/ Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Poets take their pen in the mouth and thread a map a map on the saline stomach of the muse, pour in some cerulean ink, inhale the movements of the iris, as it absorbs, hesitates, gleams Words are sworn, of its curtailed grace, of its fluid tenderness and how it scorches the flesh I am a poetess. Looking for a muse, this perfection of a woman Unfortunately, I ain’t compelled by the thrill of this curving fountain Henceforth, I hunt. I transform into a poetic weapon and start to shoot at the mirror, scales of silver, BAng Drag my bleeding finger along the blooming tip of the nose, the murdered landscape beneath, pink rivulets of colored light, beads and shrapnels, lend them a flavor, a heightened hue of ardor Soak my body in the language of tongue, gluey, lipid screams screams like hurricanes, hurricanes of pleasure of devotion, of curses…

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I-float-until-I-am-hung / I-am-hanging-while-I-float-Introducing New Sudden Denouement Member Aakriti Kuntal

You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touch, in the things

I mirror

 

Mother said ‘ You should have died sooner ‘

 

I wonder if I should have plucked my naval

into a bleeding pool and draped the umbilical cord around my paper

corset, a Sakura hangman’s knot

 

I rinse my throat every morning as I enter the mirror

in my threaded bluish gown, my face cut and placed,

Like seismic continents sewn by beaded colors

 

I take the toothpaste and rub it onto my teeth, lest anyone

detect the stench from a failing me,

run my face under water,

a few hundred times, hoping my skin would grow ameba feet

and hide inside the uterus of damp pipelines

 

Hoping then that all of me would follow

and I would be like a balloon gently massaging its belly

against lavender corns of air,

waistline glowing,

while a counter rested inside the crotch,

waiting to puncture all life

 

I watch the doctors arrive in their whitewashed suits and

surgical eyes, their occasional smiles disturbing

the atmosphere of possible murder,

The lights loom over my face as if to have a good hard look,

as if to mock, once again

 

You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touched, in the things

that hold


Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-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 Her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.