Satish Verma, 27 października 2020
The great lines, you quote, don't
stir me... you know my vexation,
with the twinkling lights, that don't move.
The colors, don't mix... I move
from death to death, to understand
life, and fail miserably. The body
does not open. Seducers
ready to jump for a bite, to tear
off my columns, my domes.
Yes, I give, give away my precious
heart, time, my infallible attention
to heal you.I don't demand any
dough, remaining in penury, do not
ask for the factors. My arithmetic
has failed. Cannot solve the puzzles
lost in maze of juggleries.
It was your world. I am living
at a binary planet, scarcely habitable.
Yet I am happy in myself
looking at the grains of sand on my
hands. You know, you cannot
write like me... like me.
Satish Verma, 26 października 2020
As I accept the verdict,
the dead-soul beast-
jumps up, draws out the sword
and starts cutting the drift. You shout,
wake up from a nightmare.
The words had betrayed. Vowel
harmony was gone. Voice hoarse, you
stammer, accusing the city, the country
the century.
It was consensual. The suicide pact.
Cloth and body, print and color.
Paper and pen, bed and grave. The
moon had kicked out the feline.
The insomnia, now rules. You
start counting the sins. No stress,
no indecency, sleeping with
dead poems. A big explosion changes the fonts.
You go into long sleep.
Satish Verma, 25 października 2020
Once you are labeled,
The human input is out and
you start falling apart.
My home, and I am trying
to set the walls free after-
the explosion.
A sinkhole eats you alive.
I am walking in air
contending with the old god
who would not listen.
Suddenly it is time to
back drive. The wrong road
taken has given in glimpse
of people starting the war.
The land becomes black
and paper lanterns adorn the doors.
Satish Verma, 24 października 2020
I punish myself daily
to deny a god.
Do angels cry?
Pinning hope in a crisis to extract
the truth from a dying moon?
A ghost walks on the
wall to enter the alphabets
of living deads.
Ambrosia- was not
sufficient to resuscitate
a bleeding cross.
I am charting my life
for you to forget me.
Quasi-surrender. No never
I am just learning-
how to meet the death.
Another name of victory.
Satish Verma, 23 października 2020
Cut the masks
and you will find a river of sorrow
in the unblinking eyes.
The mud tears had smeared
the face.
Chimera? The fire breathing
will start a new traction to break
the silent protest of lying lambs.
Impertinence?
For whom you have come to
offer the chador at the shrine?
For whom the houses were burnt down?
For whom the lives of unborn children
were cancelled?
Whose god?
This is not anonymous insurgency.
My name had been written in.
First Informatiom Report.
Satish Verma, 22 października 2020
You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights-
go out.
I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds-
at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.
It would not be a day of mourning.
The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.
The menus are same, only
the taste was different.
Satish Verma, 21 października 2020
A streak of sin,
just as culpable,
gives back my pains.
A half-finished poem
jolts me out of my vision.
Someone drops the moon-
and becomes evident in mist.
A profile floats. I
imagine the spreading smile.
I want to understand myself.
The colors blend. Have
you read Rilke? You will not
rise from the surface of-
life and death.
Authenticity has become
rarer. Copyright to kill is
religion. An aquiline nose
smells the prey.
Satish Verma, 20 października 2020
Transcribing my emptiness,
like emulating an ape-
to study the anatomy-
of a scar.
There was a brutal assult.
Uninterpretable was the ink,
like the blood spilled
after the vein collapsed.
An egg within an egg
would change the gender
of a name. A different money
was needed to appease the god.
The skin-sperms, and the
cut flowers. Times have changed.
I cannot fly like you.
I would write an ode to the nightimglae.
Satish Verma, 19 października 2020
The family pride
goes for the jugular. The rotational
push, dooms the vessel. I
come out in black waters. Night
is pitch-dark.
Riding the tiger, now you
want to come down. There was
no anonymous call to
remember the wits. A buried
myth is ready to romance.
My country bleeds in war
of titans. The secret of the road
was out. It does not go anywhere.
The bottomless pit is moving up
its depth. Nobody will drown in democracy.
Satish Verma, 18 października 2020
Celebrating the summer.
Planting a wet kiss on-
the hiding moon.
Dousing the flames,
you come in crosshairs
of a mob.
You will light
your own candle now, in-
pitch-dark inside.
Impoverished. Always
poor to buy your happiness.
Like Paleolithic stab, you stay
unmoved, exposed to shadows and sun.
The water affair was kept
alive with bloody curves. No
one believes in old bones.
I will not ask you.
I will not need.
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