Poetry

It was a dirty war
of moat
flaying the legs in emotional outburst.

No stings.
Only mandibles will do the job of chewing
on your dark fingers.

Flat, the taste of milk:
a synthetic formula to eat your entrails.
The plastic nose will smell the rose.

Unbuttoned,
message will bring the fishplates
and birthmark of violence.

Death has a cult of contusions.
You bleed to bones
for illuminating the street.


Satish Verma