Satish Verma, 2 september 2022
The migratory ache,
one day for you, one day for
me, or lunar storm.
*
The realm takes shape
of impossible metaphysics,
I shall leave your arm.
*
I want to become
what I was in wind, water
and flame. Hold my words.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2022
Your poetry was
a hyphenated struggle
to become a blood stained city,
where I live to find
a Judas kiss.
No remorse, no panacea.
I don't feel the spark.
No belief tarnished in the
autistic approach of life.
You think the increasing
distance will heal the
hurts of cuddling under the moon
in flames?
What the numbers have
given to us. Hands have the
same fingers and thumbprints
were fake.
No mass wailing.
The wolves can laugh too.
Satish Verma, 31 august 2022
Privy to my crypt
O paragon!
I turn around in my ashes.
And take a rebirth.
Inextinguishable
was my desire―
of gravid pain. Life
opens a new book of
unmeanings.
Will not call you by
any other name.
I will set you free today.
Through discreet,
stenosis. I will move
in your veins till eternity.
A pure kill―
I vibrate to
catch the last glimpse of the ocean.
Satish Verma, 26 august 2022
The tiger in the woods
waits.
You play with blue tits
in backyard
hiding the insects.
I have become―
clean, absolutely empty
like a dry well.
Will you fill me with
brine?
You wear saffron
I go green.
Tell me how you dance
on the flames?
Satish Verma, 24 august 2022
Unnaming pro-lifers, I
was ready to imitate
the song of the ruins.
Rising like a phonex
from the spermaceti of flames,
a unisexual rage,
engulfs the smoke of burning homes.
I am painting you
black, O white god, your
devotees were coming in the nude.
Bend down angel; the eclectic
door was small and the beautiful
windows were closed.
No need to wait for
a lost moon. The godchild
had been laid to rest in scythe bed.
Come when you are
going to faint in the arms
of poems. I will stay for eternity.
Satish Verma, 22 august 2022
To understand the life
after the flames die, I will
meet you in conflict zone.
Do not come with a tag.
Marked for a kill
I overturn the dead body of a cobra
to find my image in the glazed
eyes. My willingness was gone.
In a loop, I do not want
to ask any questions. Cannot
you understand, what
I do not want to say?
The empty glass does
not lie. You did not climb
the silken hills to be in a mausoleum.
I will not make my tomb.
Satish Verma, 21 august 2022
Half your young age,
violence comes in choppers,
to avenge on the solemn moon―
for a long night.
It sucks, day and
night. The assassination
draws the blood tears, unwashed,
from the sunny plasma.
The crotch was saboteur.
Pure love had become
an echo of hemlock.
Your lips were blowing blue.
It was terrible trauma
of believing in your religion.
Truth will not rise―
from the dead.
The perfect U-turn.
A dead poem turns into
dew on your eyes.
I am singing again.
Satish Verma, 20 august 2022
To erase your subtle pangs.
You become ingrained in verses.
I will not speak―
a single word to come to terms
with the unknown.
But life extracts a price.
You must become a buddha―
and leave your princess.
You will not see―
the Apocalyse giving rise
to an opus. And my child
you cannot read my book.
The voiceless dumb
bell goes on ringing to send a
call for the faithful to come
and jump into the cauldron of moon.
I boil in the guilty sun.
Satish Verma, 19 august 2022
This one-sided
dumb feeling, rising―
nothing less.
Spurned.
I reconstruct your
profile after strip tease.
Stitching the
thoughts with my empty
pen, no ink― no paper.
A poor day at hand.
I will not talk to anyone
about a dumb doll.
No fillers.
You don't need any make up
to bring the black smile.
Moon and the candle,
both were wary
of silent storms.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2022
The art of faking
will not come to me.
Your breadth
twists the moon, making
a dent on the face
of lookalike.
Becoming a stranger,
celebrating love― without
my arms of flames.
An old story repeats.
Beautiful but trembling,
the farewell handshake.
Neither comes
nor goes, the vase life
of withering roses.
The sculpture
was not yet ready.
The angel recapitulates.
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