Point Zero

I remember the gentle blues that lit the terrace. The staircase, rigid and sturdy, old and worn. The small pavement of cement inches away from the afterlife. Pigeons were my favorite people. I would watch them as if they wore all possible beauty on their agile necks. An absurd range of pigmented pink. Like the sky had detonated on them. With its vessels, stiffened blood, talking tongues, armies of flesh: all now swimming around the neck.

I would talk to them under the departure of language. A silhouette of conversation.What is behavior outside of society? How do you move, talk, lift, appear or disappear in a  universe without modals ( can, could, should, must )? What is a character when the mind is a landscape of symptoms?

Pain. Continuous waves of inexplicable grief. Grief like it has an existence outside of emotion. Grief as a palpable thing. Grief grazing over the skin. Grief cutting. Grief digging. Grief burying needles and nails and assortments and items that do not exist.

The body becomes a range of chemicals. Cattle running wild inside the crazy town.Shifting from arid yellows to flying golds then dimming blues and purple and lavender and rose and murder and lotus and murder on the lotus.

The body occasionally exhausts. So does the mind. Runs out of juice. In this ceaseless spinning chamber of silence, the pigeons trot. Beauty, alive. Meaning. Sense. Reality. Love. Overwhelming. Sheets and sheets of embroidered rhythm.Sewing the colors of daylight. Patching it all, momentarily. The sky expands. Parabolic canvas. A feverishly joyous blue. Sapphire.Proliferating. Burning. Aching. Caressing. Burning.

Proliferating. Burning. Aching. Caressing. Burning.

Music. Harmony. Silence.

The stirring center of entropy, of continuous ellipses, is a black hole.

Silent. Moist. Static. Point zero. Peace.

© Aakriti Kuntal


Prompt: A Beautiful Mind #napowrimo

Objective: To differentiate the real from 

the seemingly real

The axiom states that ‘ You cannot, never completely ‘

All understanding of truth

is but a construction

of like-minded beings,

with a set of senses, perception and thought processes

Step 1.

Make a dot. Replicate it. Grow it like gaseous stars in the womb.

Join them. Crosses, fires, and lights. A network. A mesh.

Build an image of life as it for others.

Sketch an amorphous floating sphere around it and

term it as ‘ normal ‘.

The ‘normal’ is your first definition of real.

Step 2.

A tether. Grow a wire. Straight from the pulmonary matrix.

Let it waver. It is a stem. A sapling. It has its own motion.

Do not take control. Let it be.

Let it attach. To the closest manifestation of love around you.

A form, a person, a language, a color, a feeling. Make it stay.

Caution: Feelings can be faulty. They do not differentiate between cinema and life. They pretty much do not care.

Step 3.

Count the hooded figures. Their enormous voices. The galloping stride of panic in your chest. Take a needle and start sewing around it. It’s a futile movement. Do it anyway.

Revisit the numerous places of death.

Of agonizing two-headed conversations. Of liver green gardens swathed in red. Remember. Count. Notice. Detect. Make a list.

There is a common ground to each. Find the plot hole. Bleed into it. Make it yours. This is the list. 

The symptoms of illness. Of the attack.

Make it your armor. Know when it arrives. Greet it like a passer-by, it’s not an enemy. Do not mistake it for a friend either.

Step 4.

Pain. Pain is inevitable. Learn to ignore it. Pain is also a construction of the mind. Distract yourself.

Step 5.

Beauty. Beauty is unafraid. She doesn’t fail to penetrate the thick membrane of your flesh even in defeat. 

The trees will occasionally stir like music and the starry night shall curl inside your lashes. The wind will blow straight into your mouth and build conical streams of oceans and seas.

Beauty is your pillow. Fall asleep on it. Never wake up.

Step 6.

Love. It is not a real word. A real word has a definition. (Funny that I should use the word ‘ real ’ here.) Love is a plane. Multiple planes, volume. Love is unguided. Floating. It is not a feeling. Nor a sensation. It is not a person or a face.

It is a current. It is the strongest within. Let it course through.

Offer it. Exchange it. Receive it. From the thin air. Like birds into your cave of arms. Make a nest for yourself. As long as you can return here you will never truly be lost.

And you will be able to find a definition of ‘ real ’ for yourself.

An unreal but fitting definition. A personal definition. 

Keep it safe.

Step 7.

It varies for every individual. Feel free to ignore all of the above.

Image and prose © Aakriti Kuntal


These alphabets they cringe, cling and wander

Amidst clouds of circles, in the lining of all light

where the water waits and the mother awakens

These words that arrive in formations

Of distilled solitude      Shared solitude       Collectiveness

Celebrations        Points of poetry           Points of war

Points of indulgence       of conveyance      of transaction

These words that people think that they take and bring

to existence           Plants in cold rain              Talking Too much

never enough         These words they think    are tools

that carve          that emboss          that shake

These words have never been strangers, somehow

But I don’t claim to take them in these soiled arms    Ever

I’m not that alive              Nor are they who claim, only mistaken

Language has always been an invention of itself

A higher consciousness               Above the slithering, along the

periphery of breaths

Image source: British Library    Prose and Editing: Aakriti Kuntal

Word Hunt

Scratch, finger mouths against finger nails, 
Dig a combustion, lay a mat, a cot, lanterns of cold threads,
Consciousness hanging in the noon, .

plated like a
plaintive diagnosis, compartments of the palm, 
and trains, trains and trains

Shut your eyes. Enter this matrix of pauses.
Ring your arm of rubbed incense.
Look for the word.

A canoe. A response. An arch. 
A ditch.
A compass. An observation. A reflection. 
A musing.
A lamentation. A certainty. A poignancy.
A corrosiveness.
A filter. A mesh. A screen. 
A mirror. 
A rose. A dialogue. A cell. 
An organ. 
A dawning. An inundation. A transparency. 
An obliqueness.
An acuteness. A delusion. A landscape. 
A pivot.

Did you find the word you came looking for?

As an umbilical cord that twists around skeleton trees. 
As the tree that watches. And legs that swing,
scissors and porcupine scales.

A shadow that occurs. Skin that falls. Arms that dispense. 
And hands that catch.
Did you find the word you came looking for?

© Aakriti Kuntal

Don’t be fooled.
I do not write to exclaim. To hold or fold time.
To pleat the unevenness of life. To gather the skirts of distortion.
To dissect skins. To exhale futility. To offer my deaths.
To challenge a truth. To display a point. To catch a phrase.
Or to sink a void.
Do not be fooled; I do not write to write.
I only write to fool you into believing
that I do.

© Aakriti Kuntal

Moist Conversations with a concave lens of life

Blue milk denting your sacrosanct bodies of glass.Gravity roping your hair.Tell me, how does it feel to flow incessantly.A surrender, thistle and ferns, all slobbery and cream coated. Fracking and fractured, bones and muscles cackling.

I want to know, of amalgamation, of infusion. Currents under growling lips and froth covered clouds seeping into bruised skin. They come and go. Imbue you with colors of their own. Breaths all muddled.
A tapestry that hangs, looms against the corroded back of time.Always curving.Bending to a nowhere.One that none see, but find themselves impregnated with.Like stones in their gooey stomach sacks.

Fields and water troughs, liquids and moisturized cans. Your nakedness is a march against the frailty of all bearings.Tell me how it is to be the observer at point C.
Shapeshifting mouths, cracking dancers. Limbs out of balance and bodies outnumbered by breaths, heaving, scratched and heaving.Does it drown you like it does some? The weight of lead as they scrub you with graphite bleed. Eloping thoughts, patched and cornered into blueberries and memories.

Tell me, is it too heavy? The insurmountable weight of all things breathing.

© Aakriti Kuntal

The orchid, the nail cutter, the bowl, and the Doctor

On certain evenings, my fingers turn a milky orange. There is a color alchemy, an arousing, a war. Yellow creeks, muddy yolks, water, water, and fluoride. I am a pool, stagnant, quiet, breathing inconspicuously as the clock spins.

The Doctor knocks. He has an atmospheric beard, neutrons clinging. A catacomb of wheels, round, robust and agile. Their movements coordinating into a symphony. Chopin, I think. Or maybe it’s the blues, they make my head hum, buzz even.

I sit in one of the familiar positions, Taurus, Aquarian or Libra, among others. I have molasses for legs, brown, snatching the ions from the air. I am a charged being, an origami, a folding, an unfolding. My breasts swell, pillow-like, feathery and scattered. The wind occupies the system, cracking through the ventricular organs, breath, breath, breath.

My table is ready.Tablecloth : solid blue with white latitudes, raspberry dungeons and sunflower valleys. The items are assembled in an uneven symmetry. An orchid blooms in the middle. It has my saliva smeared, DNA gloss. The sensuous texture of my palette. My licorice, salty, caramel, rancid whims.Piled like floss. Staircases upon staircases.

My nail cutter has a squint . An oval ensemble of the entire room, of me. Light, shadow, and reflection. It likes to trim, my unevenness, my wilderness, my exaggerations. Lest I claw, lest I crave. 

The center, however, is always the eye seeker. A pastel pink bowl. Crystals and lattice, fountains and varicose mountains. 

The doctor sits, his eyes steel-gray. The doctor sits and just stares, STARES. My lips vacillate, squeeze, inflate, exclaim, form rings and tails. My lips move, flutter and then fall silent.The doctor just stares. He has a cunningness, an absurdity. Like staring at an immortal, dissolved, clear and apathetic in certain ways. I bend, my neck, a palpitating dragon.I bend, my green frock overlapping across skewed lines of sanity. I bend and whiff, inhale the scent of the bowl. I call it the womb. It has such a distinct smell. A smell of yearning, of ambitions, of desires. The colors flood my face, I am a prism. (Rapid, sensuous and alive)

I pick up the orchid and swallow it. Ingest my spirit, my life. It’s the necessary dosage, the doctor says. Every time I clip myself too much, I drink the orchid. I swallow the life that is mine. To remember, to know, what it is to be unadulterated. To be me.

Picture and words : Aakriti Kuntal ©

Space Woman#2

Erica has bubble gum eyes. The kind that intervene with  radio waves and douse them with hints of idiosyncrasies.Erica was born in the pits of flabbergasted robot ants.

Erica wears water for a mask. Lucid,sometimes gluey,Fahrenheit variations, and iceberg temperament. Erica is an Eskimo and Martian hybrid.

Erica has organs that flutter. And lips that chew the penumbra of solar stares. A forehead of pebbles, she often finds herself in quantum conundrums. Erica lurks in the dungeons of winter dampness and lies on the frosted ground.For no reason.

Erica is an anomaly multiplied by the inverse of epsilon. Swaying along the rectangular trapezoidal pathways laying between the universal matrices.

Erica writes. Erica does not hesitate to write crazy. Do you hesitate to read?

© Aakriti Kuntal

Space Woman

Erin folded her lip into a paper boat and smuggled it to the smoke men.                                       Erin threaded the air with her nails and churned it in her fists.

Erin grasped molecular organs and watched them depart from finger gaps.                                Erin rolled her tongue and swallowed the sun.Erin is a bewitched green frog.

Erin took her stone pendant into her mouth and began to oscillate.Erin is a freaking frictionless pendulum.

Erin rubbed her heel against the UV rays and morphed into a sun stream.Erin is a crystalline Sun God.

Erin lay back, her back bristling against  lemongrass.Eating titanium pepper and Saturn’s donuts.

Erin is an eccentric dreamer.You finished reading this .You are just like Erin. : D

© Aakriti Kuntal

Picture : Aakriti Kuntal


The Clumped bowl

         Neera had a curious way of tying her hair. They weren’t messy but you wouldn’t call them tidy either. A brown bun, wispy strands  flickering. Summer buzzing.

          One would often find her tending to her plants. Brewing her green sorbet . She would pluck the leaves like there was a mathematics behind it and shove them all in a jar. Then drop a slimy liquid along the translucent rim. And it all started to pop. Burgundy cracking and tiny swirls of snail-like bob leaves. And the green sorbet was ready.

            She would then tap her feet and walk back inside. Shut the wood behind her. Acrylic seasons yelling. The inside of the house swirled like an elongated safety pin. Silver and wobbly. And the shelves dispersed a rosewater incense into the air, making it soft and porous. You could almost penetrate the molecules. Except, of course, you couldn’t.

            Neera would dispose her plastic gloves and set the new jar on a blue marble shelf. An entire row of incandescent forest bulbs. A  slice of a pixie lawn. The tablecloth would morph into a shadow & light mosaic, ancient and reverberating.

         It was an old habit of hers, amidst few others. Neera was a collector. Collectors collect, steal and take. However, Neera had her principles straight. She only took what was free. As a girl, Neera had always been afraid of the semantics of time. (How it kept slipping . An incessant, crawling monster.) She often wondered if she could freeze it. Superconductors maybe ?

           The night Samarth had poured his green eyes into hers. Talked of Beatles, bonfire, and lust. That was on the list. Or when mother bought her that first chapbook from the store. Greasy, with red embroidery and tailing borders. So she stocked her house with digital prints and rainbow coloured memories. She felt for nature. How people took no notice of the gifts anymore. So she took the soil, spoons into spoons and made heaps in her jars.

           Neera’s house is a memoir. So is she. A drifting current locked in the interstices. She is alone. She has been for a while now. Neera took the life she once thought she had and sewed into jars and frames. Nothing wrong with that. She only wanted to keep a tab on things. It slightly meddles with her head now. Trying to count the uncountable things.

            Still, there is no denying that Neera is an impeccable collector . She collected pieces of herself and labelled them. Now the pieces don’t know each other and don’t talk very much. But they do chime ever so slightly when the wind knocks at them. You could almost hear them humming the rhyme that isn’t.

©Aakriti Kuntal

Paper Curve

White blanks. 
     Folders cached in rotten dog ears. 

Graphite lance stabs.
Slider marks.
Purple seasons cruise. From the reeking borders of your maiden sand cracks.

My vein curves in your sage whites.
     Like diluted streams of hope.

© Aakriti Kuntal


Ornament dance.
Run along these glass corridors.
Hook to the canticle fall. And mop the ceiling mock.Chase your own shimmers. The ‘drown’ that floats.
Make me bend and swim. A Fish in its own blender.
The deluge of these unseen waters. That crosses from check to box. Paint me your coral creak.
I am ready to announce.
My guilt to these deaf hounds.

© Aakriti Kuntal