The feet lift themselves, and the legs lofty and lanky twirl
You can say and not say while you express as the cosmos to feel the things you do not believe.
Poetic perforating the lines emerge, like oceans of lavender,
Mohogany crust, pedestals falling and paving the way into the finite abyss.
For the molten smelting coal rises and fades into the aura,
As the ringing murmur and the birds halt and stop for a dance on move,
The hand appears, it swirls through the grass like a snake wrapped up.
The legs slide as you move your waist as waves coalesce and form the paths that appear.
The abyss cojoins the Sea Lion’s den, large and bulky yet a feast for many..
Honey drips your hands and ankles rotate stepping on the heels of each other.
As the unfound grace glistened, the mighty drop of sweat falls to the ground,
The roots soak in and permeate the blend of imperfect blood, defiled and damaged…
The positioning is stale and brazen but not absurd and redundant..
The ruckus ensuing has pedantic thinking, gross and crude with intellectual dementia,
As I jump and carve the ideas of sense and repute, my hair was taken by the demons.
For the hand movement, seething dandelion, creepers on top of each other is a prancing cat meant to die.
The rolled ball rolls, as the pirouette glistens and light the rough edges of my face,
With water and pressure, the extensions appeared, and the fusion was predictable.
The lustiness was practiced, for the indication was the dance
But people wrapped women and took them away, for all their thoughts lay
To build kingdoms on top of the bodies of prey,
Kingdoms of offense, persistence, and conscience, were all evoked to protect the kin.
While I wear the Kathak payal, with making lotus and Shankha on the top
For the layman seems to be riding on the pole, cleansing the booty mashup
The strip club persists, habituates, As the legs went to the top and the booty stared at his things
Meanwhile, the roll and the objection started. The darwishes and Sufis roam to gain the piety of oneness.
Her ballet becomes a cradle of blisters and burns,
Her Kathak starts. The silence ensuing,
Building the depth of many hearts, many souls and they all began roaming.
The Sufi Pir becomes a ‘Mast Maula’ the divine spirit,
Heaven and earth all meet and merge while he opens his cloth with its multi-layered tops..
She first turns as she extends and rotates and While you can never be..
But I want to be trapped in it. In the grace and locking facade.
And the kathak made to spin like a Frisbee with making more than 50 turns.
And the churn was antecedent, as the flames passionately inflame, people get back to their bases they pinnacle the bodily integrity.
I am not all pro or outright deem them as illogical conflicters…
As they turns swave, carrying the oceans churning sucking off the brinjal color .
All lay unearthed but as their turns sync, a fear rose, an irrational fear;
There is an attempt on breaking the body, and move ahead.
But the certain uncertain fear of losing physicality always laid like scorpions on eggs.
The Sufi who is also a pir elevates, moving his wrists facing up slightly moving such as he was expected,
To let himself remember that they live beyond the geopolitical context, all bloat out like chewed-out beans.
Meanwhile the girls are still dancing, and waiting for a revival. As the bodies lust with sweat and bonds paid off the ladies had their awakening.
As they are drawn, caught, and crept into the minds of the people. As we went deep and lose ourselves in serving the truth.
My irrational fear kept me from trying, while the Sufi pir left his body like it was his last day of conflicts, internal sabotaging.
So, the irrational fear of losing everything, starts to unwind down she looks whether in tunes of kathak its done.
The turns are gleefully perceptive, she made a journey to her insides and her habitual subtext behind the text.
For I did not attain him, but remember I bogged down and searched him.
Here he was, I extended my arms and legs, and he said just do the deed and yet the back-front response took the girl to many spaces.
Fearing she will be lost in void…
Cosmic Context: This is a Dance Poetry piece where things are happening to people as they want to elope from the plane of the earth but are irresistibly in congruity with their material lives. The dances of kathak and Ballet were the centered sentiment, while the Sufi won it in the game of persistence and penance expression…..
Beautiful. Love the photography on your site as well. I too have felt that bliss and write about it on my substack. Here's one you might enjoy: https://deborahbrasket.substack.com/p/wheeling-away-on-the-isle-of-pines