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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 30 września 2013

HALF-CLOSED LIDS

This nothingness was overwhelming.
When words fail to tell the facts,
only silence talks.

That brutal interrogation of self
to undo the decline, like a
a viper in your home.

The mortgaged glow of stoned infant
in the exiled land, brings
the exodus of shrunken legs.

A shadow survives on the debris
of frozen voices,
sluicing through the cries.

Open the stitches of night.
Death was skirting the prison.
No ropes. No ropes.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 29 września 2013

MOLTEN TEARS

savage was the bond of weakness;
we were hiding behind the pain
of decline, abdicating the singed shrine
of nameless opposition, nowhere the roots
were reaching the bottom of truth, I ran
like river of life amongst the flames, you try to
resuserstate a dozing century by burning
poems, every wen fighting the jinx,
counting the tiny deaths

give me your locked secrets of fire
let me face the cold-blooded murder
in caldron of dead lips

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 28 września 2013

IN REVERSE

Just unbound, the death rate.
Red roses had no qualms. Numbers,
unapologetic, they die or commit suicide.
Death had no tombs. One by one they
cross the stream, sinking half, floating half
in a cynic system, heedless, emaciated,
eyes looking beyond, cavernous.

They kiss the doors, will not comeback,
pilgrims of grapes or hemlock, dead on the toes
of rehearsals, dried milk in breasts and pounding
of metaphors. The mankind stripped of songs
drifting from one forest to another.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 27 września 2013

THE RETREAT

The heritage. Storm of violence
in our chromosomes: perverts the senses.
Spooky fear of burnt houses, broken limbs,
utterly committing as witness of silent
unbuilding, as the future defies the
stunt of withdrawl.

Not for tomorrow, the mother weeps
for the exiled trespassers on dead sea.
Drowned corridor of sinking ship. The explosions,
feathers destroying the direction of winds.

Life picks up the rags of pride, of 'me'.
Terror waits on the lips of sorrow
like an obsessive maniac, ready to jump.

Some candle, bring me some light.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 26 września 2013

DRUMMING

in hired spring and naked thighs

the eternal sorrow did not go, it was living in our
memory under the gun of an unknown soldier. The
mania

had brought the overwhelming jeopardy of artificial
smiles, the swords, and ropes and different

tools of torture brew abomination, my clay
absorbs the shock, the abandonement of pain;

I reach for the icicles of veiled fire to burn
the generosity, the sacrificial amputation

of one's own neck in service of opposition

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 25 września 2013

DARK CORNERS

On a wrinkled trajectory
the blood averts to abstract remission,
I am out of place in time and history.

Try to nudge the jumping ants
with their cyberweapons
ready to strike the antique nectaries

of judgements. The predators were
coming. Killing for long necks and
pinkish lips. You envision a period..

of dearth for visage, for phrases
of dead skins: I start dismembering
the past, contained in future.

This was a total disaster of unknowing,
adrift between the fingers;
sands of time, ungrained, unwatered.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 24 września 2013

EXISTENCE

A toddler unrobes the secret
of death. Modifies the circadian
rhythm of honeybees, opens the
daisy clock. Cage of tears.

The virus had the acrid odor
of sulphide. Decay. It never happened
before. Spring was helpless. Primrose
forgot to secrete the nectar.

Stones were everywhere,
on beds, fabrics, eyes and berets.
The white walls were painted with
blue camels. Smiling?

A cold moon walks on coiled snakes
consuming the venom of incendiary itch.
The grey people were dancing on broken
glass. Blood will make the visitation.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 23 września 2013

A SECRET SELF

Every night this body
becomes a dissecting knife

a crime scene of blood
and unstrung flesh,

the lamb spreads the wool
for a deadly charge of skull plate

with a gift of mathematics
a moon cutout in sky

before the shadow of myth in the depth
of tortured chemistry:

the endless nothing will kiss the darkness
my blindness becomes a diet.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 22 września 2013

CONNIVED

Weaving fine fibres of unripe
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird

scrambles, shading the stone valley.
There was no thrift for the cadavers.

The burnt relics were eating away the greens
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.

A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a

guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through
the procession of thoughts, something which

cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 21 września 2013

A DEAD SONG

They were ready
to suck the crowd. The child was pushed
into lentil soup, boiling, to appease the rain god.

Shining masks, the celebration starts;
surging a myth, crown of hawthorn,
hallucinating dance.

The people lick their fingers,
feast for claws and incisers
I run for the cross, please wait.

Emptying tomorrow in the lifting
hands of blunt queen. The watercolor
was casting the vote.

A freedom descends on the wounded
legs, as they drag with nobility.
Thumb by thumb you clutch the tree.

Satish Verma