Satish Verma, 17 june 2013
ripening on the tree
loosing erection
the redeemer comes back to orphanage
for the biggest fraud of times
we are playing with each other
hide and seek
cutting edge I plant
chrysanthemums in my esplanade
at least they give company
you know gold plus
flowers make a very potent elixir
cold-blooded sure to melt a steel
through knobs you enter
the laughing eyes would you
mind to take off the extra wrinkles
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 16 june 2013
savage
running under the moon
selling the night
sanitizing
the hands
after the killing
truth
withdrawl
vaginae still inviolate
seeds wiped off
from the face of earth
ethnic cleaning
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 15 june 2013
Did you taste the ejecta
after a sacred ritual of exploding
a makeshift bomb in a crowded market?
I am worried.
I am becoming death, curling backward.
The wood spirits have started a fire dance.
The healing, yes, it comes from the blood
of steel, they claim, the blackness of a hole
has a purity.
Hunger starts a riot of lewdness in the
ribs of an empire. A skull on the hill
betrays a slaughter of young boys.
The makers of AK-47 were repenting,
for the brutal aura. I have started
telling lies.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 14 june 2013
the punctuations
start crumbling
a soldier
falls to coyotes
this was their space
a moon was sitting
in waiting room
inhabiting war at
a defining moment
it was a fatal attack from
the guards impersonal
ripping through the passions
to hold or not to hold
the fruit end was near
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 13 june 2013
you enter the lair again
dun colored
shrapnel was on your lips
to hear your truth I lay down
the book
and look beyond the acid rain
falling after the explosion
the yellow flames still lapping
against the crater walls
jasmines were alive
dented memories wer climbing
on hills before you can unsee
the moon bleeding to death
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 12 june 2013
It was an absent answer. Terror
was one abyss in unhindered
waking of eternity in being. The passions rise
between downpour of black rings on the terraces,
was nonstop a parade of excuses and pretentions, no
body was taking the responsibility of the war lost, and
we nod in unison. Hunger drives the wedge. This
is a city of moonless sky where the headcount
never stops.
Warriors sit down under the volts opening red
eyes, the trade gets a bad name, rubbers
win the coin. Yellow metal gleams around arms,
a wound becomes a talisman, you start collecting
the awards from severed hands.
*On watching a massive blaze of gas depot at Jaipur (India) unebbed for 3 days.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 11 june 2013
The yellow beaked vultures were waiting.
A cloth bag contains the bleached
remains; his father.
Impeccable gift unmasked.
After the inferno, hydrants went dry. The guilt survives
the dispossession, pondering over the black dew
now covering the pink roses.
The illusion persists. Master is coming home.
jug was empty. A miracle will start
the kitchen. An infant cries in the backyard.
The windows were sleeping. Let the sun
stand outside. A yellow moon at night will
open the door.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 10 june 2013
That vertical sink
loaded with cargo
fraught,
with pools of blackened blood
burned me.
I never arrived
at a moot prologue
for the journey of dead.
The sun turned away
in a doubt
under a smoked trance of helplessness.
Perhaps it was true of a murder
in serene weather
when the astrologia was opposite.
The charred landscape
dithered about the lilies.
Will they come back?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 9 june 2013
After a soot rain
the grey fear moved centripetally, seeking centrum;
thoughts, saffron colored, in the words
went mute.
You were still searching the head,
of a nameless torso, in a heap of your failures.
The river had run dry.
Why were you trying to revise the script
of anthem after the man made inferno?
A mushroom cloud was heading this way.
Ah, the prickly lips still eject the same
agenda for dualism,
now the yellow metal was nickel-plated.
Outside the stoic redemption falls the reality.
Man had become a crypt on a grave
of less guilty.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 8 june 2013
The flesh was putting up a brave dialogue.
I was willing to play the game.
Stunned, shocked, pleasantly sore
basking in heat of silk throat,
I asked the needles to go ahead
and stitch the wounds without loss of blood.
Wasps were waiting to light the candles,
so that they can attack the pink skin.
The fruit bats were hanging upside down;
time for fellatio. A boundary was submerged
in deluge of anger. It was a white night
for an ice cream cone. God bless the queen.
Satish Verma
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