Myriadame

_{Art by Monica Medappa}

On torpid terrain,

groping for substrate.

Wispy metachronal gait

stirs flesh to pulsate.

Whisper of a billion bristles,

sends beneath a flutter.

Sensilla searching,

undulating through crevasses,

delving into orifices,

thrusting every chasm,

lifted to elevation and down to a sudden slump….

Cease! Onslaught of sensory alert!

A hollow calling from a portal familiar

propels every segment forward.

Pinpricking, crawling to the summons.

Pincers constricting, the pierce of restraint.

The entrance inviting, beckoning to envenomate.

In trance, the body surges.

Triggers:

1. Wide open space (Attack of the grey lantern) by Mansun
2. Predatory behavior of three centipede species of the order Scolopendromorpha (Arthropoda: Myriapoda: Chilopoda)–DOI: 10.1590/s1984-4689zool-20160026

The Carp’s Bride

Hello, my fellow readers. I realised that my last poem , Carpe mutationem was more crap than carp (Sorry, O.D. and David Redpath! Thank you so much for the likes and comments!! ❤ Something about it didn’t seem right for me). I like this one better than the last.

_{Art by Monica Medappa}

Speculation made it from corner to corner,

Of a river dweller,

All in all, five yards long

A sunfish? A shark?

“Let’s embark with hooks and baits

nets and blade,

For our waters are only for a docile clade”

Those that went after the schurkin spawn

were met with a hollow yawn.

Gobbled in, churned by pharyngeal teeth

Never again to see another dawn.

Their death met not by sunfish or shark

but a cavernous carp!

None but one had outdone.

In love she was with this ichthus imp.

His stuffed appetite, her servile worship.

“But with every last mortal gone,

How now shall we satiate your palate”

“Come closer” said a voice so sombre.

“My little mermaid, so delicate, so languid

Be the bride in my little planet.

Let the union between limbed and finned

be the first of many beginnings”

The Carp’s pupil dilated.

She searched those eyes for a sentiment

that she could comprehend.

The eyes only steered her near and near,

“Oh my dear, I’d rather you go down beguiled

than in fear”

She stared at the mouth, an enormous pail.

Down she went the pharyngeal trail.

It was to be a nuptial coitus,

But what became, was mere detritus.

_{^{Triggers : The last thing by Lebanon Hanover}}

Carpe mutationem!

Art by Monica Medappa

Her passion strived,

In a world where once carps thrived.

Studying their ways, their grace,

Seeking to protect their sacred space.

With dedication, she fought the fight,

Against the townsfolk’s harmful plight.

But as the carps dwindled, one by one,

Her heart grew heavy, her hope undone.

Dejected, she sat in her lab’s embrace,

Feeling the weight of their lost grace.

But in her sorrow, a transformation began.

Her skin turned to scales,

Her eyes bulged, within the iris a darkened hole,

The pupil like a gateway to the soul.

A metamorphosis, a new world.

Donning a long overcoat, she took flight,

To the cliff’s edge, bathed in twilight.

With courage and purpose, she shed her disguise,

Arms exploded to radiating dorsal fins,

Limbs entwined, tail unfurling.

A fusion of human and aquatic kind.

Revealing her true form, to water’s cries,

Her scales glistened, reflecting the red skies.

She leaps.

A giant carp, majestic and free.

She submerged, embracing her destiny.

Brahmin Bunny

Arcadian Verses

Art by Monica Medappa

Stranded at sea, a rabbit of proud pedigree.

A far cry from what used to be.

Ousted by his crew for not fixing chicken stew.

“Banish this useless shrew”

“Pardon me I am no shrew! I am an Angora blue

Eating flesh is vulgar so Greens I cook plethora”

“Hurl him overboard or send him packing on the little red boat!”

Alone a fleece of Brahmin, middle of the Arabian.

Foreign to this seclusion, mopey from rejection.

Guilty of self-pity for he was no moaney coney.

Still he was sure the world came with good intent.

Wickedness only intermittent.

Now came a ravaging hunger, intruding his profound ponder.

Schools of fish swam erratic, “lookey lookey, isn’t it cherubic”

Rabbit on red boat made them ecstatic

Virtuous felt he, for hungry he may be but eating flesh is a deed so ghastly.

His breed owed him a…

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Goodbye

Art by Monica Medappa

Sailing through once pristine waters,

now as black as tar.

Toxins, the new Tzar

Cadmium spheres and metals molten.

Air so static,

silence of nature, vitriolic.

Beer cans and cigarette stubs,

poystyrene and gasoline,

plastic and condom,

Man-made vermin, earth’s new emblem.

Scores of opah and barracuda,

floating dead from hypoxia.

Some gasping,

fervently searching.

Sweet Air.. just one last gulp,

before death beats life to pulp.

Halt!!

 The ocean is respiring!

Forcing. Exploding through this chemical vessel,

Comes iridescent hoods and tentacles!

Beating all odds and obstacles!

The sheer magnetism sends an outcry!

Cnidarian eclipse!

That was the night they took to the sky.

Leaving behind this toxic nuclei.

Triggers: Mareux-The Perfect Girl and Chelou-Aneurysm (A Tribute to Nirvana)

Cinders

Image by Pratheek Rao

Midday drizzle

Exploded to torrential ripples

The air was brimming trouble

When instead of ripples

Down poured cinder people

Faceless with eyes like flaring spirals

Eyes that cascade you down to a timeless capsule

It rained and rained of cinder people.

Pelting down in thousands

As townsfolk run rampant.

Amidst the towering unknown,

Clutching cell phones, crawling on flagstones.

Hysterical, scramble, gabble, immobile.

‘What in the name of the devil??’

‘What the fuck are them people??’

Some jostled to safer sides

Some cowered and cried.

Clamped hands held bats and rakes,

Cleavers, racquets and hatchets.

Mortals aggregate.

Awaiting a move, a reaction.

To slice them aliens into ribbons.

Each festered a fear subliminal.

But in vain, the cinders only

Stared and stared……

Unflinching forward or backward.

With stares so nebulous,

Thrusting into bodies so conscious.

Digging to find the meaning of sentience.

That was the noon when fear was tangible.

Fear to the unfelt is a feeling that is cardinal.

The sun’s faint glimmer,

Was the end of the unfamiliar

Their bodies brought down to simmer.

Mortal stares of stupor met with

Thousands of hollow stares as they trickled

down the drain into Black Black puddles.

Mahayogi

Image by Arup Barua

45 years. He questions the meaning of life and existence. The answers he pursued. Long nights in libraries, hypotheses from Mahayogis. He travelled by foot to woodlands and cities.
Sitting beside chai kiosks, overhearing techies conversing, people cursing, in gadgets immersing.
Temporal urges they ingested.
Every brick and wall, synthetic infested.
The city and it’s eccentricities, the forest and it’s trees held no answers.
At midnight beside a stream.
One last time, flashes of bygones under the moon beam.
‘There never was an answer’
The body transforming into a sanctuary of yogic contortions.
No expectations. The mind on the ‘Now’, a consistent pulsation
Focus on every movement, constituent, every contorting element.
Absorbing the process, he transcends.
Third eye metastasis.

Spectre

Image by Monica Medappa

Spanning across a thousand yards,

Across boulevards, circuit lines and bottle shards,

Stands a spectacle, stoic and skeletal.

For 800 years those pinnacles like needles,

 Awaits to spike a fallen angel…

Perhaps on one of my nocturnal musings

I might see an angel hanging

On your pinnacle like a flag hoisted

of white and gold afloat.

Your body mightily antediluvian,

is a dance of illumination,

of fire, ochre and feuillemort.

An emblem of divine enormity,

Despite that unflinching austerity,

Do you sometimes sway to impish tendencies?

Hiding within a goetic entity?

What secrets of past feuds and turmoil,

do you hold in those arches, vaults and gargoyles?

Did Gods and demons, within your walls

Debate, inebriate, copulate super coiled?

Towering solemn this witching hour..

Is Petrov, a golden spectre.

Triggers: Roslyn by Bon Iver & St. Vincent and Kometa by Jaromír Nohavica

Vain

Art by Monica Medappa

I died and became a scarab beetle, reborn in Savannah’s torrid heat.
Spinning dung, I’m on the look out for bigger obstacles.
Spiders, wildebeests maybe even an African eagle?
Spin, spin, spin. vision-360 degrees.

Spin, spin, spin – a resting oryx

Spin, Spin, SPIN! – centipedes curling on a mound spire

At a distance, a rhino beetle. I disregard.

But Oh!

Pierce!!
My dung orb rolls downhill! Who knew, I’d be crushed by my cousin’s mandible.
My end in a vast grassland, so trivial.

Triggers: Old friends by Darren Korb and You’re somebody else by flora cash

Visions

Art by Monica Medappa

The blind man and the rooster.
Walked miles and miles together.
Offerings of corn by village folk they shared together.
He sang to him and he clucked in acknowledgement.
One night, the blind man slept intoxicated. The rooster pecked him in several places, unintended.
At dawn, from every peck arose an eyeball. He could see it all!!
Sky and land! Feet and church arcade, fishes below, pelicans overhead! all at the same time. compound vision!
He ran to the village,overwhelmed
‘Magical rooster! visions to me,he rendered!’
People petrified!’ bogeyman!!’kids mortified.
The guards promptly arrived.
‘Magical rooster! visions to me,he rendered!!’
The rooster’s neck was instantly wrung. Following day, accused of witchcraft, he was hung…

Triggers: Fountains by Blvck Ceiling and Save your grace by Scarlxrd