The Mating Chaos.

In all disorders there is a secret chaos.

We understand this world very differently.

I see it as an expanse of possibilities, you as a point blank packet of facts and binaries.

I see it as an abstract, picturesque canvas, painted with a thousand colours, left in my backyard this morning, for my wild interpretation.
You see it as an object, fixed with limits of zero to infinity (mind here, I claim, that you call it an infinite limit of integration, darling it is still a limit), coloured with a thousand colours demarcating a hundred areas, left in your laboratory last night, for you to use it or discard it, do not think twice.

I see the stars, playing with the star dust in their mouths and pockets, messed up with light in the curls of their hair, clouds hanging as the chiming earrings, and pointed edges in their pants, some distance embedded in their arms, which extend them far away from my reach.
And I watch, that the stars twinkle, like the biological beating of my heart, twinkle on and off with a pause of a split second, just like the empty splits between the two knocks within my heart.
You see them as galaxies, infinite, without a starry shape, devoid of any protruding corners or edges, without acknowledging the distance between you and them, as they appear close to your pupil through the lense of a telescope. You do not see them twinkle, you say, it’s the light that refracts through the frozen layers of the past. Past that is acting like an atmosphere, which creates the illusion of star’s charming sprinkle. You believe, they just emit a continuous monotonous light, and for you such is the nature of the stardust too.  Perhaps the dust comes to earth only when the star breaks lose, and drives back home to you,in that moment you can see it’s scattered filthy dust. Otherwise it seems clean to you. Holding up a romantic nose to contain itself within the expanse it chose to create.

I see people, as the misconceived experiment of a creator who wished to mystify the treasures in the game he designed, deliberately creating people with differences and similarities, of hierarchy and misogyny, of psyche and empathy, of lust and leeching, of love and preaching, of desires and hatred, of passion and dare, of emotions and cold, of satisfaction and solitude, of greed and power, many of them, in different proportions, within different orders.
People are bound to be different and foolish, they are here to only become objects of a predecided move, subject to alteration but not obliteration. Well crafted into the instruments of fun, the sadistic creator had designed them, expecting them to act smart.
He preluded, during such an act of smartness people will make a fool of themselves, and in the act of foolishness find excuses of subjectivity. The major excuse they lay out pertains to being a human being.

I let them be, because they are heavily marred by the characteristic of such a life. I do not wish to burden them with my weighted judgment of morality and wisdom. I would rather be their earthly manipulator, who plays them, without having to trust them. But trick them into their own realisation, without having to curse them.

You see people, as a means to an end. Not as an end in themselves. They are your parasites, guinea pigs, or catalyst in your equation. They are the poisons, that require anti venom of your powerful words, as if you would resurrect their dead morals, their sleeping wisdom, their uncertain flaws, their masked salvation. Your curse and swear would melt the effigies of their superficial cognitive, and make them positivist. You curse people, as it is, and expect them to bear with your insult and in return adore you. You do not consider them as alive as yourself. Believing that the air you breathe remains different from the air they exhale. For you they don’t exist at all, if they do, they are degenerates and unfortunates.
You secretly celebrate them, as the embodiment of your own emotions.
I see ideologies as threats.
You see ideologies as weapons.

I see wilderness as a mosaic of mysteries, waiting to be explored, but not in entirety. You see wilderness as the road less travelled.

I build realities in my dreams.
You build dreams to make them come alive.

I bridge the creaks.
You bridge the carpet’s fine separations.

I seek the bigger picture.You seek the finest details.

I worry about the unsaid trails. You worry about their existence.

I talk, cut open my emotional vertebrae, let you have a look at the dried up marrow and mucus, for only to stitch it back, and feel the stream of marrow and mucus vigorously brimming again.
You talk, open up your vertebrae, hinder my vision with a blindfold, take my finger and dip it in your mucus, make me feel the depth,but before I touch its bed, you zip it close, and tell me how I soaked some of your fluid into the cells of my skin.

How I saved you, of the horrendousity of “life” brimming from your bones.

You save me, from the insecurities of not knowing what circles inside your intestine. You let me know, what a man must.
I let you see, what a man cannot.

I see order as the next big chaos.
You consider order as the next big philosophy.
Chaos for me is a ladder, not everyone can climb, not everyone can even find. For you perhaps, it is a pit.
My chaos is an escape route from your chaos.

Let them make love now and belong in each other. Similar to how we have been within each other all this while, just like the ying – yang.

Let our chaos weld together. Let our chaos mate.

Kanksshi Agarwal
– From the land of mystical hiraeth


A Road to Imprisonment!

The mindless secrets.
They sprout out of my mouth, like the seedling bursts from the core of the earth, unable to tolerate the heat of the lava anymore, that was incinerating the mirthful drops of bubbles that tried to give the seedling a life of its own.
It was so dead. It only reeked of the possibility of life, that the farmer thought would benefit his fortune.

The embryonic seedling, before being born had thoughts, which didn’t matter. Had a crazy plan, which didn’t matter either. It had hopes, which were too heavenly to be real, I wonder as to how it didn’t have a brain to be rational?
The “seedlings” are the metaphors of the  mindless, lifeless, powerless and arrogant “secrets”.
The washes of memories and the paint and varnishes that do not exist at all. They are well unaware of their   incoherence with the truths of reality, however they love to fake that they  know it at all. Knowledge makes you powerful, but the questionable stance of ‘knowing-it-all’ regime, usually leads to unprecedented wars.
Nothing can exist before it comes out of the womb. Of the earth, or from the womb of my secret box.

However, the delusion of the power to be born someday, gropes the seedling and forces a masquerade over its dead face.

No eyes. With no questions

No ears. With no apprehension.

No nose. With no air to breathe.

No lips. With no lingering tastes of kisses and smoke.

No chin. No chimples.

No cheeks. No dimples.

A dead chunk of possibilities. With an invisible crown of power and pride, that deluded the “secret” to make a history.

Secrets do not know, they do not exist for the world outside.
It’s the fire within the pounding heart, the few droplets of mouth watering lip locks, his lovers’ sunlight of multiple lies, the darkness of swollen his eyes.
That. That. That.
That gives life to the secrets. The thoughts.

To come out and breathe free.
The mindless secrets –
Become the reason of your imprisonment to another soul.

– From the land of mystica

Kanksshi Agarwal

#secrets #thoughts #poetryinmotion💙🌿 #writer #poet#artists

सपने, बारिश में घुले हुए!


खुद से जीतने की होड़ में, मैंने खुद से ही पीछा छुड़ाया
इस धुंधले , दर्द से सने, अंधेरों से घिरे रास्तों में,
अपना सपना कहीं गिराया
प्यास ढूंढते बादलों को , हथेली भर शबाब परोसी
उसने कहा : क्यों खेलते हो ईमान से मेरे, मोहब्बत ने ही तोह नमी खाली कर दी है मेरी!
फिर उठाया मैने. रूठे हुए किसान का आंसू बंजर ज़मीन से,
सपना उस बूँद को बना कर, संजो लिया बादल ने अपने दामन में
अब वही सपना

मेरा और उसका

हर रात बरसता है

उसकी छत पर!


The Incessant Incense.


I am scattered. Like dirt and air around you. The incense burning in my womb, is not letting me sleep. It burns slower than my cigarettes. These days, I cant even spell “cigarette” correctly. My first attempt in self-correction was when I was marred by my peer for using incorrect grammar. I have been self-marring since then. I change. I do not like most of my versions, and this is my umpteenth one. I almost wonder every night, what smell is my incense? Is it the taste of the soil after the rains? Or it tastes like golden wood? Like the leather of my purse, as I have clutched it between my teeth, when I use a public loo. Does my incense smell like a butter-piece scrub in the holy water bath? It must have a taste. One that defines the scent. I want to eat the fragrances, when one crosses the two wide holes of my nostril and bundle me up. I had seen a dog in my elevator day before. He sniffed and rubbed his nose over the elevator wall. I thought, he purred over the rusty element. He licked it innocently. I was told, he was enjoying the fragrance of some other dog or probably a bitch, who had been taken in the same elevator before him. He lurked.

I direly wish I could smell all humans who have lived before me. The fragrance would have spoken of their spilled blood and scoosh. Of the kisses planted on their skin, also the ink in their tissues. They would all have written letters to their loved ones, and etched it in the pockets of their limbs and calves.

I get tied to things very easily.  But things, they do not string me for long.

Half way, the dreads unbundle.

I fall lose.

Over the ground, almost breaking.

Not me!

The bundler’s spectacle. It broke. His judgement too.

He had bent down his arrogant head, to see how a thing of such menial confidence, doesn’t breaks. It cuddles itself, cross the two arms across the heart, shuts the eyes, and stare deep within her womb at the little light coming from the incense. The smoke filling up her conscience, leaves her body only when she opens her eyes. Puffs and garlands of suffocating smoke, had turned into tears, stranding her eyes red, and lips salty. This thing, this me, this I. I have been kissing my own tears, like the water from the brook. Brook, the poem I read in school. It flows in my dreams. It sometimes look murky to me. But I never get worried even when it appears so.

Brook has been painted so beautifully, that it has camouflaged the reality. Concepts are attached to things we wish to derive meaning from. The “ever-flowing” concept of brook, it makes me believe, that anything that comes down a hill, sprinkles and tumbles, carries with itself the moss and ferns, and sunshine dances over its shallow, and it brims to join the river can be called a brook. I see the inherent incense in me, becoming the brook. Because men may come, and men may go, but the loitering lust in my womb, to carry the world like an unborn baby inside me, goes on and on and forever.

~From the land of mystical hiraeth, Kanksshi.