Keratosis pilaris

red. brown. white.
they appear at the higher end
making you question
the blithe Keatsian word
pranksters on beauty and
doom. 

sweet poison sweet
red brown white beautiful.

upper end.
no one has a voice reaching there.
either it is beyond the network signal
or it is below the social plague.

red and white makes pink and brown
in some shades of night

where
sleeveless selves shy away
because of the voice that will not speak

where
layers of skin are added
for the voices that don't speak

where
laser lights of plagiarism
makes beauty out of the business.

lines and lines of crooked moments
silent
waiting
crouching beneath the keratinin
to become the voice that doesn't have a voice

because there are no lungs in the business of beauty.

The poem is inspired by a curious child's innocent question that translates into a social illness in the adult world - beauty propaganda.

Copyleft@Susmita Paul 2014

Dear dear ones,

 

life has amplified all senses. laughter's hitting harder the cries

more pensive dreams

vaguer desires stronger

and at its eye, there have been 

 

1. thoughts

2. nightmares

and 3. soft clam shells. It will always fall short. 

the fear of dreams. 

like it hit rock bottom,the

eye. 

noises no longer fade into the distance. no muffled attempts at this turn. 

"turn the rod, the way it will", or, the way ...

 

it's never desire that lets down. it's the blood in its veins that betray the dog

wagging its tail to every bone under the ground. nourishing a bone then

can't be a priority. 

tell it now. horns, dancing shoes and crap et.al.

begetting dreams is an onus that i deny. ears, eyes, tongue, skin and blood. 

i deny it the priority that can make a scratch on the wall 

'coz i believe that it will be white-washed soon. i believe it more than my pregnant soul.

there was an artist who painted walls from the west

and one who scratched his skin every morning to whisper into it, "you're alive now"

and one who dug a grave spitting lies to her feet

and one who wouldn't dream 'coz she was afraid to wake up 

brittle wisdoms of soul-seeker bees douse in flames tonight

no less a dream it is, thinks the dead star, a few trinitised galaxies apart.

 

Blessed peace, or s___

no, thanks. no food here. no food now.

empty thresholds suffer hunger

and missed good-byes.

"no one keeps promises"

any time of dreams and nightmares

yet, who remains hungry?

drains and constellations dig out the same blue filth

- all that truly is

                                                                

                                                                     framed.

casualties are a way
of breathing. some times
a soul or two. sometimes
a tangled breach.

the music sauces none. no one is living.
 yet.
  
After poem notes: It takes an ocean of suffering to forget. It only takes a death to remember.

© Susmita Paul 2013
This poem is under copyleft rights - which means it is free for sharing, distribution and adaptation. Please feel free to share this poem with your friends and family. The only recognition I seek is remembrance. Kindly leave a note/ a message/ a mail when you share/ distribute/ adapt this poem.