Satish Verma, 14 february 2013
to celebrate a beautiful sin
on the green lake
a sequelae starts a covetous lust
of white skulls,
discovering oneself was as exciting
as the fondling of breast
for the first time –
innocent graveside, road burning
stretching to throbbing millions
harvesting endless tears;
inattention of grief
was the punishment of unknown
shredding the veil into bit pieces
the ferocious clawing
tears off the sunset of age.
your jealousy?
bitter screams?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 13 february 2013
a facsimile of torture
candlelit in moony dark
i want to unread the anointed death
on this tip of an arrow,
here it comes
the hissed phrase
wrenching the gut –
for conceptual withdrawl,
dawn of dark secrets
without footprints of echo
extracting a price,
do not stop fighting,
smear me with blood
hot spurts of thrills to defend the pink
in valley of counterfeits blades,
the green was fake,
the red was fake,
pure white poison
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 12 february 2013
scape without a name
scepter of a colossus
merge in a yellow boom
between hunch and a knife,
to keep shut the glassy lips
from red stares
a secret of an anonym
scripting sunset
the stacked neurotransmission
of millions of texts
with quietus
not to return back without the foe’s skull
a hollowness reverberates
while indifference talks
of moon’s lair
nor a dwindling shoulder–
and the tigers have disappeared
from sanctury
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 11 february 2013
for self deception
sulfur fumes incite
mood swings
soaring to clean the malice,
reaper of gravity zero
what was the price,
of a tongue, mimicking
the greatness?
between birth and death,
for survival of crotch,
undressing the fear, terror
inflicts the pumice,
for honour killing
a roadside encounter,
with meddling of thighs,
lets down the clouds,
words in print were unccceptable
for a verdict on a silky mat
my fate splits open like a pod
in summer, for a love untold
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 10 february 2013
Depth of a bruised sea
rising from the surface
overwhelms the dumb shore
shining
for impossible tomorrow
golden sand, the locked door.
History repeats amnesia
for a depressed meniscus
shifts the nameplate.
Here was laid the image of
priestlees god of dusty face
small dreams.
The book remains incomplete
who wrote the contents
for blank pages?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 9 february 2013
I begin unlearning
the script, in irreality,
find myself
my shadow in intermission
envelops the virtue
peak of sorrow, silence of space,
give your hand, within clarity
of reason, inner globe
of light, your kiss melts.
A water lily grows
in my palm, full of tears,
a terror strikes on thumb
like a dismembered limb
a veiled moon walks in night
to reach home.
The sun will find the road empty!
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 8 february 2013
unrearthing the fallen saint
you wash your feet
and enter the temple of forgotten god:
cult of escapc from
tangled half- truths
with dramatic entry of hysterics
you fail to accept yourself,
the grieving death – mask
transcends a fresco
labyrinthine, spacey
soul-sick mates
disputing for no things
the unstained shirt
reminds the absence
you bake a new recipe
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 7 february 2013
For the sake of lake, I climbed
on the weeping hills
to see the other side of moon.
The precipice of hunger weighs heavily
on shoulders.
Capricious time moves inwardly,
Strikes at the chest.
I set free the love-birds.
Conflict of trees tramples the grass
All summer the smell of dry winds
was scorching tear drops.
Every word was crying.
Dark in my city
I am wandering alone in alleys
of hostile homes.
The collective guilt of the flesh
blazes the mind.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 6 february 2013
Cambium will cheat one day
the pace of climb,
snakes will dance
peeling off the skin –
the urgency of moon
to take away the body of victim
from sunscape.
You thrive on a window
switching off the sky.
A quaint reptile walks on the moon.
The medium sits on a black stone
and the mob
burns the house of a lord
Sarracenia, your lip is too large.
for a kiss of death. I am coming down the steps
to drink the acid
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 5 february 2013
After running for the flesh,
why did you make a home for the death?
Was it a reverence
for buying the peace?
Or fear of uncertainty
and suspense in the bosom of pain?
The panther was only thirsty, there was
no need to shoot him.
I will fight the war
on my own terms, in defence of liberation.
In moment of defeat, there
will be celebration of truth for homage to a truce.
Give me some reason to die.
Satish Verma
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