Devika Mathur writes

The Soldier of Mind

You,
round faced paper origami
the mammoth long body of thorns,
how do you sprint and dance now?
in the occasions of forever upside chaos.
the chaos that further extends to your mind,
to your never met lover's face.
The vacant tongue of numerous pending words.
How do you stay awake in the moments of abstract night?
The epitome of clock when it sinks,
sinking the lotus shaped bowl along with itself.
How do you keep yourself warm?
Warmth that satisfies the heart?
You,
the blood-frothed mouth
of canvas full of always moving objects.
Why do you stop now?
Move. Hop and jump
like a pictorial of a slipping soldier in your mind.
Pronounce this life like a star of your chest.
Understand the breeze yet again.
No, do not brush where the few leaves hang on,
for they resemble pages of strength without a name.

Devika Mathur writes

Aerial Forever

Darling,
I have seen the ombre of your lips and words
like mirrors protruding a new leaf,
like a vintage walnut is hidden under my pillow,
your kiss under my pillow, for memories, is my skin.

Darling, 
I have known you all these years
as the shadow of the moon, tingling my dreams,
making me nocturnal often,
your breeze like the nostalgia of lights.
and your mushy hands of solace.
pause and dance, dance and breathe.

Darling,
I see you as morning dew 
as a charm cascading as red as a blush 
around my waist, around my milky thighs.
extending til my toes. 
your breaths are my home.
I see you as an eye of perfume if any.

Aerial forever.

Amor Sacro e Amor Profano [detail]-- Titian

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.

















-- José Gallardo

Devika Mathur writes

Aerial Forever

Darling,
I have seen the ombre of your lips and words
like mirrors protruding a new leaf,
like a vintage walnut is hidden under my pillow,
your kiss under my pillow, for memories, is my skin.

Darling,
I have known you all these years
as the shadow of the moon, tingling my dreams,
making me nocturnal often,
your breeze like the nostalgia of lights.
and your mushy hands of solace.
pause and dance, dance and breathe.

Darling,
I see you as morning dew
as a charm cascading as red as a blush
around my waist, around my milky thighs.
extending til my toes.
your breaths are my home.

I see you as an eye of perfume if any.
Aerial forever.

Moon Shadows -- Sharmon Davidson