Aadishi’s Poetry Corner #1

Aadishi Agarwal

UCL Laws Student


Number 1: 

A pretty painting to hide the pain in Mona Lisa’s smile, she picked up a brush, she stopped not once.
A pretty painting to numb her for just a while, the blood in her veins, on her canvas runs.
Blue toxicity of choking fire, it flows through her so slowly, meandering astray, and the toxicity of lead and color she pours, fading away, fading away.
She paints her soul, she paints her eyes, glinted, washed over in another time, another hoax
She painted the curve of her lips, red and with lust, she painted giddily the flirty words they silently coax, to the blades and words, that cut through skin, the transient marks they leave within, the ache they left that you didn’t feel, the moments of her lucidity they couldn’t steal.
Frozen in time, formaldehyde or canvas, holding her pedestal high, high until the menacing breeze, like autumn she fell
Drowned in the river Styx, bloody in the sacrilege of hell.
The popping veins, the knitted arms, by Hippocrates oath she promised to do no harm. But she didn’t think like you or me, it wasn’t wrong if it set her free. She broke no rules but she rode on the waves, that rolled over the marred skin, the scarred mind, of blood gushing out fast, and then slowly, red and then just blue, blue of paint and death, of purgatory whispered in every breath, sins atoned for or not, she couldn’t care, vapour and floating mist, she was never there. Trapped in an eternal cry for help, singing to the metaphoric knife, saving death from the travesty of life.

Number 2:

She was the type to write words along the pale skin of her arms, in electric blue, she would trace the rivulets of her teasing veins with words of panache, reverie, mystique, sobriety and solemnity- she would ink the slivers of her flowing essence in veils to hide behind, camouflaged amidst impossible to find, all they would see was the disgusting thrill on her face, euphoria from the sharpness of the point along her skin. She would write her words sultrily, in slow strung out strokes, languidly, like the pleasure was holding her back, the rushing iciness beneath her words was freezing the surfaces of her release, until she couldn’t write another, she was high in her dreams, cushioned by the sharpness. But pleasure and pain, were separated by a fine line, fine lines traced in ink spelling her desires, pain was her master, the chains holding her a sting away from disaster. She paid her dues in tokens of minted red, like blood, blood or wine- staining her lips, her hips, from eyes it dripped, from wrists where she slipped; wine stained lips, she added trouble to her list of flowing words. She was the type to write words in the shadows of her black blood, a reminder of her melancholy as she wrote eloquence that would only graze her mouth, in the back drop of blackness seemed uncouth, imagine falling drops of silver and dark skies of lead, scarred by the arrogance of an attention seeking red. She would spell extravagance in her enunciation- the finesse of her dancing tongue flitting between the roof of her mouth and the cages of her teeth as she whispered the words into her silent nights as she spilled them out invisible, flirting with the seams of her being and soul, catching fireflies with your eyes closed- eluded into seeing their light, but when she reached out, all she grabbed was the stardust of an empty night. She loved the extremity of her words, the effect their moulded- moulded, like they were crafted for her seams only- syllables would manifest. It was redemption in itself to watch her lips purse in preparation, like her mouth was the epicentre of an earthquake tying it’s shoelaces, one moment from catastrophe, one moment from saviour; it was redemption to watch her soul floating with her eyes closed, her scandal so quietly posed. Her tongue worked wonders, it echoed her thunder, thunder on a noisy night, not out of place but for the premonition of light. There was power in her words, like swords to wield, an arsenal to keep, armour to help her sleep. She fought with her eyes and syllables, one for pain, two to relief, three for warrior, she was battling the whole world, pushing back how she was pulled, just holding on, fierce little girl. Her tattoos taught her lessons in ways she would realise later. She hid her strength in the niches of her back, slides of her sides, nestles of her clavicle, the warmth of her chest; away from sight. She talked to the world in the colloquial they’d create, save her elegant words for the small of her waist, save her sagacity for herself and her rants, a facade to parade in the masquerade, she was hers, and nobody could see, but maybe that’s how she wanted it to be. She was made of ice and fire, icy veins- fiery blood, each intoxicating the other, her veins begging for winter, for her blood to run cold, frigid skin, porcelain; she flowed wild and hot, tunneled embers, writing her curses in cursive. I watched her rain her fury numbed in hail, measuring up to all the milestones she was supposed to fail, she was speaking, crackling like the flames, hearing her was the game.

Number 3:

Lying on the golden sand,
She twisted gently in lust,
Her hands were jut, her eyes were shut,
Her bronze skin soaking the stardust.
Her toes were curled, and body poised,
The perfect up and down of her chest but the haste.
And she panted in a euphoria bought by the shards
Of the broken dreams her lips could taste.
Her finger teasing the dip of her lips,
Peeking to see what inside lay.
Lying there in all her naked glory
Her body said all she had to say
She smelled like the smoke, she burnt up slowly,
Like a palette, she oozed of hunger,
And as the moon looked at her in perversity,
It’s wrath reflected her thunder.
That nirvana woman, she lay sordid,
In the throes of passion and darkness,
And if I could pixel her curves, her silk and swells
I’d capture that fiery starkness.
She flashes her eyes open, to the rolling of the waves,
As they wash over her, again, numbing;
Only salt, only salt, just salt.
And Nirvana.

 

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