Satish Verma, 11 stycznia 2021
When the roaring tiger
was behind the bars, there was
this otherness. So much voiceless
was that, it had wounded me.
Your life had entered my
dome to meet its darkness, my
sky, my moon and the
riot of color begins.
By unbecoming, dying
in every home, to write the
script of desire, you will take
the path, where my marrow went down.
The clocks, on every wall
to remind me the moving time.
Will you wait for the explosion
to stop the trembling hands?
Not giving an answer you shut the door.
Satish Verma, 10 stycznia 2021
The other day.
A full moon was walking
on the pavement
like a pedestrian.
I was dumbfounded
at the sight of the imperial walk.
To give a poetical start?
Was it a pin drop visual
with no sound? Only night
was listening to footfalls?
I would not know of,
the journey of ending
or ending of journey.
Like death burning
inside the seed, or a golden
flame becomes a lapping machine?
Satish Verma, 9 stycznia 2021
Intimacy in dark
carries the emptiness,
pauses in the way-
under the faint moon.
A homeless bird heads towards
the lake.
Passiflora.
The flowers remind you
of crucifixion.
The human loss was intense.
The fire within, extinguished.
No stone was ready to move.
Do you want the sound to be on?
The firmness now starts
melting. A holy river caresses
the bridge. Shores tremble.
Satish Verma, 6 stycznia 2021
A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.
It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.
A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?
At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.
No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.
Satish Verma, 5 stycznia 2021
The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.
An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak
of the dead river, of elegy.
No life-
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice-
in north and south.
The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.
Satish Verma, 4 stycznia 2021
You were not facing
the facts to defeat yourself-
with palm leaves wiping
away the stains of moon.
The confessions were not
valid in light. Darkness will
decide the fate of an exhibitionist.
In the game of survival,
onlookers become strangers.
You will not stand on your feet.
Invisible hands clap.
Sometimes we don't talk and look eyeful.
I have nothing to begin today
nothing to finish.
The sea swells up without a storm.
Satish Verma, 3 stycznia 2021
Sometimes the unholy fears
come obliquely-
from the scorpions.
Tongue tastes the salt of spilled
hate. You execute the hooded anxieties,
creating a cadaver pyramid.
Stich-open-stitch. Cobra
in the bush. Awesome colors of eyes
Brown-blue-green.
I am not going to kiss
the chillies. Burning hot lips.
The contours were enticing.
I shut my eyes for a weird encounter.
The floors pulverized. I still
stand in mud, on my own.
Satish Verma, 2 stycznia 2021
What you did not know
was the resilience
of tulips.
The riots start
in colors, earnestly. A violent
outburst of the theme of surrender
before dawn.
You kiss the irises,
blue, violet and crimson
for nominalism.
The vision emboldens-
the wounds, the slit throats-
to come again for guillotine.
A sliding blade
with promise to kill,
will not move.
Satish Verma, 1 stycznia 2021
Answering your own question,
wrapping the kill-
as manifestation of
God's will.
The old earth
still bears the fruits and
comes face to face with the
ungrateful human being.
Not touching your breast, I will
hear your heart beat
once-over.
Before the rains come,
the rage will sleep with the stones
and reconstruct a-
prehistoric fault.
Apollo wants to leave
Delphi and become a monk.
Satish Verma, 31 grudnia 2020
Stares down, the grey
moon, fixedly,
in naked aggression…
Fire and brimstone.
I move one step, towards you. In semidarkness
I have lost the address
of peace.
The transgender, stumps
the ghost. There was no noun,
no pronoun, only an abstract
feel. Do you see the
wooly trail beating the dust?
When did you hit the dirt road
not to come back…
What was undone? After
the death of the cuckoo, there was
no wedlock in words.
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