Aakriti Kuntal “A Conversation with Death”

A Conversation with Death

What has skipped
this levitating chest?

The bone hangs like a mantle in midair

You come and collect
the smell of sleep from my mouth,
my anesthetized mouth

You come
over and over

You come,
rowing across white seas

You come and rest in my mouth
The lovely sound of crows conversing

Nobody understands this,
Nobody understands this love,
this endless devotion of yours

But you come,
you come anyway,
You come and lick the whiff of my floating mouth
You eat and glow inside it

You glow, you glow
Together we hook the sky
and play with it in our laps

Together, we make the earth
swim between our lazy feet

Together, we growl
and pounce

Nobody understands this,
this affection of yours

for me
You, from beyond life,
from the rim of death

You, that only travel in lightyears,
Come for me

feeble bone resting on time’s ailing forehead

Bio: Aakriti Kuntal, aged 26, is a poet and writer from Gurugram, India. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Selcouth Station, RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread, The Hindu, Madras Courier, Blue Nib, and Visual Verse among others. She was awarded the Reuel International Prize 2017 for poetry and was a finalist for the RL Poetry Award 2018.

Guest Writer e.a toles “Insomnia of an Altar Boy’s Wedding Night”

Insomnia of an Altar Boy’s Wedding Night

first you learn to parse yourself out.a second of your time can be weighed
in lack of sleep, in a tiresomenesswhich reverberate throughout the day.
my body is thin when I wake,my skin is a flimsy veil
only apt at keeping the obvioushidden, it is well suited for wedding
gowns, for covering dining room
there are some while have learnedto live on crumbs of a life,
on the bits and pieces left overby those who present themselves
as well meaning, who have mastered the art of reflecting others. you see,
people wish to be clean, eventhose who dine on rusted tins
and sentimental resentments cravethe acceptance which comes
with perceived purity.
each of these nails is preservedfor my coffin, I have little use
for hardened finger tips or crosses,
for protected nubs.
paper cuts happen to the bestof us, even when we swear only
to read custom nuptial vows, pleasof security, of hopeful longevity.
in the end, we value sleep becausewe needn’t remember our dreamsif we do not wish. if only life
were so liminal, so full of the wethorniness of spring, of maddening blooms,
of lust presented without the caveat of human decency.

His writing can be found at crippledengines.wordpress.com

Devika Mathur – How I Function Each Day

Wake up,
a Sunday morning,
brush… brush… brush.
A round bottle of face wash,
cleanse your soul now,
with your knuckles upside down,

Watch the sky,
sip on your tea,
a warm ginger aroma
sip like an old lady,
boredom comes next,
one , two , three

bath now,
shower on,
naked bruises & body
a shower so surreptitious,
calming yet haunting.

What’s next?
A naked observation of life,
galvanizing particles in the air,
splitting & chopping
a few more apples to bite now.
Breakfast done,
sleep now.
Quiet your mind.

these are steps for survival,
steps to knit a cobweb around your empty body.
Collect a few more items,
mosaic dreams, perhaps?
Collect some more,
keep it in your fading garden of memory.
Lighten up your shoulders again,
repeat, you!
Repeat or you die.

[Devika Mathur is a published poetess residing in India. Her works have been published in magazines like Visual Verse, Indian Periodicals, Blue ink poetry, SuddenDenouement among various others. She has been the part of the amazing anthology “All the lonely people” and is a contributor writer for Whisper and the roar and blood into ink. Recently, she started her own online magazine “olive skins” for surreal writers.]

Born To Wed, Not To Rule.

A fair muse.

Crazy People Are The Best Writers

My mother's greatest joy
and my father's worst surprise.
Being born a girl,
I am nothing in the court's eyes.
Practicing law and government as my brother has done.
But sadly as a princess a crown will never be won.
So many things to accomplish and to learn.
I must have all languages right,
For someday it will be my turn.
Fair bright skin
And beauty beyond compare.
A young virgin girl
with her mother's hair.
My father's pawn
and my mother's daughter.
I must have a son
to not be slaughtered.
I have a duty to God
and to the Holy Father.
I must marry a king
to be my father's daughter.

View original post


The future.

To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons

I’m late for life.

Lick my frustration laden eye trails
with your feverish degree of need.
I’ve pulled apart my patience in brushstrokes,
and sit damming rampant torrents of greed.
Traipsing through a shutter-box as though
a thrown skein of glass trapped thoughts.
Spending words of do not try a thousand times
until they’re echoing so loud it hurts.
There is less difficulty here then meets the eye,
even when it’s filled with sorrow.
We’re on endless roads, journeying upward
on travels through time into tomorrow.
The final hurdle is simply to start the race,
get up off your ass and focus.
Move away from rabbit holes and wasted days
lest the world consume us as the locusts.

View original post

E, clip, see

A great editor and an inspired writer.

RamJet Poetry


I told myself I would write

but there’s nothing to say

the whore at my core

says to go fuck something

but I don’t have what it takes

to go to war today

the sun goes dark

in the park

I watch and wait

for the Hand of God

to crush all of this disease

into a neutron star

I don’t think he will

but I must be patient

’cause I do not think he’s far

ponder push plush plundering

pulverizing prideful personal passions

preponderant, perforation pleasures

pause, pun, passive in passing

puking porous published politics

please, prequel perplexing Pacmans

percolate posh postulating pyrotechnics

pixies payoff pricks piling puling prominence


I think I need some E or X

clip, clip, clip

news stories or .45 questions

See? Seas are busy this time of year

I wonder what the dolphins think

when the moon occults the sun

does the ocean…

View original post 89 more words

To the beach, and love making again.

A great photographer and wonderful writer.


Been back in city of Mindelo half a week. What was missing in my life? Prayer. I had slipped into a survivalist existence somewhat. Like the fast rising and falling Tropic of Cancer sun, the city, it’s lights, noises, did not seem to offer much in the way of night, morning, day, night transitional space. Similarly, the half hourly strictly regimented bugle calls from the nearby military camp dawn to dusk, the hand of man ( must ) prevail it must seem.

2130h. I could have just sat and sat, but nature called, strongly. Legs were so tired, but I donned my white flip flops and ambled toward the beach just 12 minutes away, with a little slightly scuffed book in my hand.

Moored ships in the bay, dancing sounds from the club along the Praia; all, beach, languid waves, bathed in the light of our many electric suns –…

View original post 131 more words