Satish Verma, 19 november 2020
Wearing the red bandanna,
you tried to manipulate the bedrock.
Life had been never the same for me.
The ferry sinks the riding
deity in midstream. In polytheism,
I never had my own god.
O the chemistry of love has
changed. Meatless, my skiny arms,
lift the sage of fallen moon in darkness.
I am not ready to conclude
as yet, my epic of fragmented truth.
We were fighting the wars of lame lies.
Who would spare me to become
immortal in stones? Let us not start the
annihilation of sane shadows in the poem.
Satish Verma, 18 november 2020
Your interpretation
was a miracle of
unbelieving. I was not
a flesh eater.
Between paradise
and a hut, lies the sky
of colored dreams. You
lean forward to-
pluck the moon.
So stoned, was the
sinister design, that
you walked straight
into the arms of stings.
It has become a
strange saga, when a
moth burns, without
a candle.
A sun nosedives with
a water motif on the lips.
Satish Verma, 11 november 2020
The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be
forgotten in gender dysphoria.
In grimed apparel,
the deities were deported back
to the barn, for housing the antiques.
The future turns blue,
moon-eyed, hooking up the
hopes of running heels.
Is that true that there
will be mass suicide after
the fall of the fort?
The fat lanterns now
don't throw the light. Incense
of burning flesh floats.
Satish Verma, 10 november 2020
It was punctuated night.
You sleep into wakefulness.
The space between the shut-eyes
trembles, when you start sweating.
The infant-death of the dream,
incites the borderland. The-
flames rise in a partisan way,
to erase the memories of guilt.
You are in deep grief for the
coiled sperms, from end to end,
they were longer than the body.
Would you like to wake up a jinn?
A digital forgetfulness, you seek
to solve the enigma of life.
Satish Verma, 8 november 2020
This spectrum.
No it will not work.
I am not there in the
shade, smoke filled barn, or-
in secular morgue.
Stubble burning was
like legend of war.
How do I shut the
door of diamond moon-
in the kingdom of
weeping night?
An animal in you
will not sleep, claiming the
innocence of baby steps.
A virginal vanity.
Nobody stops you to
display the grains of salt.
Would you listen to the land,
flight of words-
passage of time?
Satish Verma, 7 november 2020
The moment of truth has-
arrived. The earth
has moved the man. It was
accidental verdict. You know,
which cell you will be incarceated now?
My flame-singed eyes, search
the inception of integrity above board.
I am afraid of myself to
admit that societal violence
has come to stay!
Celebrating the birthday of
a self-propelled god, I go
into irreversible retreat. God
bless the wax house, fire was
raging on hills.
The blood cherries, blood on
your shirt, blood rings on your
fingers, and blood in my eyes.
Satish Verma, 6 november 2020
In searing heat, on
the fern path-
a thoughtless journey begins.
You cancel the prayer
for midnight blues.
Ice was going to unload.
The skin deep spread
of levator floor acts.
You jump from a springboard
to catch a lucid dream.
Would you now walk like
an eight legged spider?
I will remain sociable.
The hands are not for sale.
I am arranging the combs
on the white sheet-
for the queens.
Satish Verma, 5 november 2020
You loosen the grip
and let go the bank.
After throwing itself on the
burning pyre, the phoenix
has failed. It will-
not rise from the ashes.
An agonizing script
unfolds. In a visceral moment,
I was scared. Life, till natural death.
What do I do now? Words
do not help. Stop doing anything?
A void becomes a voice.
You become whole.
Living precariously, thinking
becomes a tree. The roots
will feed the heart.
A songbird reminds me.
Time to salute the dawn.
Satish Verma, 4 november 2020
It was a marathon race of
timeline. The days are bound and shot.
How do I come to you to express
my grief of the country
in tumult!
In shouting and screaming,
there was no magic wand to invoke
peace. Your mouth opens
and shuts like the shell valves. The
scollops- words, swim in
sea of burials.
The seriality was unconscionable.
It falls short of a stroke.
The blood splits. A riot erupts
to wet the lips of curved razor.
The sun retreats, to let
the stars find their sky.
Satish Verma, 3 november 2020
My little dirty moon,
why were you hiding-
when the vulture-poems had
an uncanny similarity with
raging road show?
The volatility would not exit.
It rises in flames to make
a big black hole in the sky.
Sometimes I hate you,
sometimes I, love you,
my elusive, beautiful karma.
At night when I disappear
what poem you will read?
In fast-running stream, your
croaking will not be heard.
Try to begin a dance of democracy.
Terms of use | Privacy policy | Contact
Copyright © 2010 truml.com, by using this service you accept terms of use.
8 october 2024
O GodSatish Verma
7 october 2024
Z liściem na głowieJaga
7 october 2024
0710wiesiek
7 october 2024
The PenultimateSatish Verma
6 october 2024
0610wiesiek
5 october 2024
0510wiesiek
5 october 2024
Wielkość nie jest kwestiąEva T.
5 october 2024
In God's ShadowSatish Verma
4 october 2024
mężczyzna idzie do domuEva T.
4 october 2024
January CoolSatish Verma