Untold Stories
Untold stories are a moonflash on the skin,
they walk in circles chasing different dreams
they are an eye, a glance, a face, a melody
wafting down the sting of lavender streams.
Untold stories drown in batik-blooded books
they turn into burning flames in empty streets
they are a blush, a kiss, a hand, a tragedy
dancing on the edges of fragmented beats.
Untold stories are a coquelicot of red rage
they drape the coffee mug like a guillotine
they are a death wish on murano tapestry
kissing water-lies between your teeth and mine.
Untold stories are iron branded on a wedding ring
Untold stories are blind fireflies without a wing,
Untold stories are crueler than the kindest thing.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved.
Papier Mâché Poems
Who left storms in the heartbeats of the rising Phoenix?
Whose words slipped between the lullabies of our lips?
Who made night a decadent flute in your fingertips?
Who wrote sheet music about lost rooms whispering
the sin of poetry ravenous inside your Russian skin?
Our bodies-White Jade, Egyptian sunsets, glass idols,
dancing lilies on the map-torn country of a dark saudade.
Here is the song of my eyelashes in the cadence of your hair,
here are the embossed fevers of an endless Indian summer,
here is your smile against the Abyssinian fire of my thighs,
here is the bloodstream of your hungry lips poised
like a sniper in an extravagant, unrepentant sunrise.
Here you will find a lost spring, evenings soaked in rain,
a dash of shadows, a kind of a disobedient moon in orbit,
and a primitive god in the homeland of my sycamore pain.
There I am brewing tea, making a dessert of your name,
There is your body- a confessional, a carnivore,
There is my body-in your Siberian tiger jaws-aflame.
No telescope will ever see the collision of our minds,
as sharp as knives, as loud as your city, as quiet as Indus,
as fierce as forest fires dancing down my spine.
No mouth will ever taste the salt-blood of our stars,
sliding down the back of my tongue like quicksilver
dissolving in papier mâché poems that are yours and mine.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved.
Untold stories are a moonflash on the skin,
they walk in circles chasing different dreams
they are an eye, a glance, a face, a melody
wafting down the sting of lavender streams.
Untold stories drown in batik-blooded books
they turn into burning flames in empty streets
they are a blush, a kiss, a hand, a tragedy
dancing on the edges of fragmented beats.
Untold stories are a coquelicot of red rage
they drape the coffee mug like a guillotine
they are a death wish on murano tapestry
kissing water-lies between your teeth and mine.
Untold stories are iron branded on a wedding ring
Untold stories are blind fireflies without a wing,
Untold stories are crueler than the kindest thing.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved.
Papier Mâché Poems
Who left storms in the heartbeats of the rising Phoenix?
Whose words slipped between the lullabies of our lips?
Who made night a decadent flute in your fingertips?
Who wrote sheet music about lost rooms whispering
the sin of poetry ravenous inside your Russian skin?
Our bodies-White Jade, Egyptian sunsets, glass idols,
dancing lilies on the map-torn country of a dark saudade.
Here is the song of my eyelashes in the cadence of your hair,
here are the embossed fevers of an endless Indian summer,
here is your smile against the Abyssinian fire of my thighs,
here is the bloodstream of your hungry lips poised
like a sniper in an extravagant, unrepentant sunrise.
Here you will find a lost spring, evenings soaked in rain,
a dash of shadows, a kind of a disobedient moon in orbit,
and a primitive god in the homeland of my sycamore pain.
There I am brewing tea, making a dessert of your name,
There is your body- a confessional, a carnivore,
There is my body-in your Siberian tiger jaws-aflame.
No telescope will ever see the collision of our minds,
as sharp as knives, as loud as your city, as quiet as Indus,
as fierce as forest fires dancing down my spine.
No mouth will ever taste the salt-blood of our stars,
sliding down the back of my tongue like quicksilver
dissolving in papier mâché poems that are yours and mine.
© Jaspreet Mann. All Rights Reserved.