Poetry

It was midnight moon
cruising in the bedroom.
I step aside in the depressed window,
watch the overwhelming spillover.

I listen, then do not listen to alien voices
of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan,
artfully in cryptic signs
crunching the bones.

Black crucibles throw up bright stars,
in cruciferous crow bars. Pungent
smell of armpits. Dizzing heights
of memorials, becoming digital targets.

Deathless deluge of totems, claim the
corpse of earth. The screams start
coming from buried caskets.
Divining rods disappear.

Blue spirits trying to fly away.


Satish Verma