Saturday, December 1, 2018

Devika Mathur writes

Collection of things

i write about words flipping. An austere silence of white spot.
where my mind slips like a star, a container of things.
All things small. All things big.
Sunflowers. Mirrors. Wash basins of sins. A sliced layer of a tongue.
I keep things safely like the moon keeps tides.
Often my body expands, and I talk about hallowing point of death.
A blue stigma of turgescent smell.
I write about broken ceilings, tip-toed pain seeping inside.
And numb arms floating. I am a collector of things.
I collect people. From the sideways of my pupil.
Under the quietness of my skin.
Infestation. Indentation of stains.

each finger comprises a twig of pain :loss
you count one, and a pit is created,
Countless movements of scales.
Countless movements of corpuscle.
I take the final drop of blood
lurking through the moments of us,
between the cotton moisture,
between the untold air, humid.
I become a ball of loss and regeneration.
And I write about geography instilled with hushed voices.
 Jean-Michel Basquiat, "Air Power" (1984), selling for £2.5-3.5m (~$3.3-4.7m USD) (all images courtesy Sotheby's) 
Air Power -- Jean-Michel Basquiat

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