Satish Verma, 3 maja 2021
How will you be defining
a war, when you
meet without machetes?
Between real and fiction
lies a deficient bridge.
We will go for a walk to find―
the weak spots.
A dead city moves in its
entirety. You prepare yourself
to read the tea leaves.
The dregs were in power.
Why you were becoming schizophrenic?
Do not blow at the dead sparks.
How long the shadow now
you want to throw?
Satish Verma, 1 maja 2021
Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.
Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.
It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.
Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.
Satish Verma, 30 kwietnia 2021
A textual study
of pain and bliss.
I was coming for a reprisal
from a temporal crisis
of intimacy.
Always gnawing at me,
the roll down from
love to hate. Which was
impersonating what, like
a talking parrot?
Soft murder. You will
half-die, poker-faced in
grey night under the full moon,
holding a poem
written for a black sun.
I shall never get
over my dilemma.
Satish Verma, 29 kwietnia 2021
Whoso stills the
thunder, it was difficult
for you to lift yourself.
A failed past was―
asking for a date
with destiny.
What your gut bacteria
would say, when
it is raining hot kisses?
I extricate myself
from the shelled house
of pride against the risk.
Should I prepare myself
for the worst? Midnight
syndrome will attract the moths?
Satish Verma, 28 kwietnia 2021
Butchers were in panic.
The bulls are coming.
Dandelions were
in strike mode.
The Ebola dream
was competing.
Nobody there
sleeps in open.
The stink of dying
poems overwhelms.
Please make a
self-potrait like
Rembrandt nude
without a mirror.
There was no
night watch.
Satish Verma, 27 kwietnia 2021
He used to dream
of date palms, covering
the defended wounds.
The scoli crab after
the fall will stay. It will
not change the referendum.
The neuter will not
form the trinity. I will
not hear the signals.
Night was not yet
dark to explore the moon.
My stars remain faded.
O country, the people
O planets, the goddess
of rape is dead.
Satish Verma, 26 kwietnia 2021
Red horizon―
had bite-marks
of setting sun.
On the table,
I will place all my oblique wares
for a change.
You embrace the strange
things, horns and all. The
dissection was accurate.
A multiplex opens the
gates for all the
lipless gods.
The maddening silence
of the priest was
deafening.
I will not come near the skulls.
Satish Verma, 25 kwietnia 2021
Darkness always weighs heavy.
And light was weightless.
You were visible to me.
I was not sure, which
god went numerical.
I was carrying my scars.
It offers no solace
if I become you, and
start hunting the filters.
Let the moon rise in―
its imperial robe, in
praise of setting sun.
Satish Verma, 24 kwietnia 2021
Under the pear tree
a rape survivor
wavers.
Elsewhere a moon
was sailing in
ghostwalk.
Unsteady in human
chain, you wanted
to know, what―
was the logic
behind the savage
metaphysics?
A curse becomes
a daily bread of the
tongueless victim.
How far do I go
to unearth the myths
of nodding religion?
Satish Verma, 23 kwietnia 2021
The prediction goes awry.
I wipe away an exotic
smudge on the paper.
I was trying to fight
venom of adverbs and
adjectives.
I want to retrieve my
poem, as it was― before
the digital onslaught of beheadings.
Give me my garden room,
baby moon and spotless
needles. My blood was blind.
I would come again in
my burial mode, when
your trenches are ready.
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