Satish Verma, 31 sierpnia 2013
prisoner of retribution,
he was buried under a salt lake,
elusive, his crotch,
not far from stings of wasps,
the blood spills,
he would wonder how to catch the truth
in black river,
wrapped in imperforated causes,
leaking with curses,
black conjugation of greeds,
with the grief unbuckling the grudges,
uncut wounds, festering under the skin,
the stink starts scything, he starts
folding the denials, in self praise
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 30 sierpnia 2013
prisoner of retribution,
he was buried under a salt lake,
elusive, his crotch,
not far from stings of wasps,
the blood spills,
he would wonder how to catch the truth
in black river,
wrapped in imperforated causes,
leaking with curses,
black conjugation of greeds,
with the grief unbuckling the grudges,
uncut wounds, festering under the skin,
the stink starts scything, he starts
folding the denials, in self praise
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 29 sierpnia 2013
that has been, was so raven
that you were hugging vanity
for the deportation of death
as a living;
fake predicates of a genius
like words falling as bucketfuls
of lies,
back to back coffer dams
collapsing, submerging
seers sarcophagi,
and the annual rings were becoming
deeper, mossed in misery,
his book of moon blackened,
goodbye, the dark unsinkable,
I am going to be reborn
in the abyss of my own sorrow
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 28 sierpnia 2013
a kiss
on lips, returns with a blunt style,
in perfumed demeanor!
i did not hear
with absolute eyes, a captive
in chained feet, for self-defence;
all the shades of red
were walking on ocean,
a black skull glides:
the night fills in pores-
the gale, kills the black bucks,
poachers were on run!
in telling, the wizard
entices, you will never know
full toll of civil war:
he turns down a gift of speech;
words and whistles were surreal echoes
and I see a sword like nose
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 27 sierpnia 2013
i make ready myself for an insult
and chest pain, keeping unshorn hair like nettles
on contours, to take unknown turns for restoring
the clouds on moon-blue hills, spreading the water colors
on trees; someone inside the shrine was making
turbulence: yellow room has the footprints of
a naked fakir, after the apocalypse, who walked eyes closed
on the burning ghats, his rags are now worshipped,
the later years found the darkness
glowing in the furnace of propped up body
by roses, roses all the way, he tells the
hanging man, how tall were the poles, with song
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 26 sierpnia 2013
not enough
howls of tormented birth
under a homeless roof, arresting the light,
a bleed from the pungent breast,
you lost the marriage with marigold,
to be grave purple eyed, missils killing
the shrieks, i let a paperweight
sit on the vessels and stop a free run of black
blood from nipples: dawn, it was far
away, the goddess inhailing earth's ice
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 25 sierpnia 2013
The peace has a random price;
buried by sea of volition in knee deep puddles of
saline mud, being in being, after the crash,
to keep dissent alive.
Tell me, how did you go in arc light
in the middle of death, plunged in icy delights
of bloody waters? Prevailing withdrawl
spills the counts in endless moments,
of permanence and deceit, a face was
present at one time in two canvases;
the despondency was victorious in kelp,
of arboreal moon, night drips orally.
When the future comes in nesting birds,
I will search the eggs of cuckoo, before
I know you again; the venus-fly trap for hidden
kiss will open the honey glands.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 24 sierpnia 2013
It was a searing moment in grueling
heat of your flesh, the racist attack had come
to surface, the blue eyes,
edible gold, in nights
the pink veil of the moon,
I will cut my wrist to pour out the pure vermillion;
a huge umbrella of hot kisses
dissolving the contaminated beads
of musk, like fever;
the smoke rolls down the hills
of collective guilt,
an anonymous warning;
the frozen voice opens
like a black tulip on baby ice,
down under goes the sun.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 23 sierpnia 2013
Why deceptive retrieve
in a wheelchair
for the fallen?
Was it not a sheer
wrong message
of a space anxiety?
The aboriginal name
was dead in a traffic. What
a choice to breathe its
last in a city of buried
monuments? Vision of inner
city affiliates,
taking questions for
the first time. You
become only a body after the death.
A white rose waits
for a blue sea. The black moon
hovers around the old man.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 22 sierpnia 2013
A cult of sound without lips
was growing. The veil had staked its claim.
Staying myself I thought I will become
you; there would be a lured kill!
Moaning inside, a wave has ruffled
the sea. Serpent of moon quakes the shore.
Death was worthy of a kiss. A gull
flies away with glassy wings.
Rediscovering a beehive, honey of the
immaculate queen, between the breasts lies
a rival, I do not drag out the rainbow, I
have lost the will to trap the blue-fish.
We are distancing. A saddest tree drops
the seed in abyss, blackened, somebody
buries it inside a wall. The stones have
no option, up to neck the opacity runs.
Satish Verma
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