Satish Verma, 2 marca 2019
Time entombed, a negative
film, showing the
white bones of
a black moon.
I am surprised, how
a jungle of humanity, lives
with predators―
uncomplainingly.
A lost genre will find
new syllables to start a
heliographic script to
make history.
There has to be some
reason, in the lamb days
to become a wolf.
Satish Verma, 1 marca 2019
On ladder, you climb
for espionage, with
a feeling of an evil.
Somewhere, somebody
pulls the strings,
at arterial roads.
You put yourself
in harm’s way for
exotic blooms.
A civil disobedience, starts.
A bone of contention was
the muscle of love.
One on one
tooth for tooth,
lips for lips.
Satish Verma, 28 lutego 2019
The pungent smell of dry
smoldering leaves, greet you
when you cross the road.
The knower has become
unknowable and I start collecting
the pebbles, a remimder
of lost childhood.
Somebody has kidnapped the
art of the nocturne. The
songbird will never find the moon.
When you are under attack
you run faster,
to drink the speed of dust.
It was a case of intimidation.
Invisible ghosts were demanding
their bricks of gold.
Satish Verma, 27 lutego 2019
Like a wax moth, me―
sensing your footsteps
from a mile.
*
The half-truths
were always baked in milk
to look white.
*
The cleric was
jubilant. God has decided
not to live any more.
Satish Verma, 26 lutego 2019
The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you
start, the dance of death.
Personified, lone word,
unloved; changes the
choreography.
Given space, a sick
crowd, expands, unsquares,
for the throne.
The abysm from which
the cicadas are crawling out
to devour our being.
I do not want to
control you, your song.
I am burning in my own holocaust.
Satish Verma, 25 lutego 2019
There was a sharp rise
of indecent things. On the
rocks you left my name
without flowers.
Make a heap of all
the gifts of life and griefs and
start a bonfire. No message
is going to come.
Let us live in separate bowls
of soup. Time had swept
them clean for a murder.
One day the alien god will
alight from the sins,
to alter the numbers.
The mudslide of untruths
will scupper your house
made of paper and pen.
Satish Verma, 24 lutego 2019
A desire spews the rocks.
Between two moments
lies my body.
Learning the first alphabet
of violence. I fail myself
in the lily pond.
Statues and inscriptions
were me. I had become
the god of doubts.
A disembodied faith
overtakes my senses,
I float between the words.
The humming
starts from a formless bee.
The everpresent honey drips.
Satish Verma, 23 lutego 2019
Hiding from each other
your prosperity.
I wanted to remain a fakir.
*
This was the faith
in its truest sense. I wanted
to live in childhood paucity.
*
Like the first letter
I wrote to you, I am
sending you a poem.
Satish Verma, 22 lutego 2019
After tasting the homemade
poison, the walls,
start moving.
The poppies are in bloom.
I am not interested in morphine
or codeine. A sago palm has
come of age, preparing to
put up the conical sex.
A trust deficit will not know,
the signature of veneer, of
the gender.
Something moves behind the
bushes. I was already afraid
of emptiness. After the violence,
amputations and barrenness.
The desert invades my bones.
Cannot sleep with hands
on my chest. Will you
collect some runners?
I want to raise
the grass for the sake of commanality.
Satish Verma, 21 lutego 2019
The nephrite syndrome.
I will not change the―
calculus, to find the truth
of the flesh.
The paid price of chemistry
will make history. If
you can stop the blitz―
of the replicas.
It ends like a fire, without
ashes. The limbs check
the fall. Across the river
an isle erupts.
The prisoner at last escapes,
from the procession of profanities.
You are finally liberated,
releasing the lost poem.
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