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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 9 czerwca 2012

SMALL WINDOWS

This road trip to moon will not end
through the shards of shattered,
small prints of sleep.

A ravaged nest lived behind tomorrow
in necklace of past apologies.
Hanging by fan was ending of today.

We talked of dirty nights and bright glasses
in the strange land of gobblers. The
greed was the keyward.

I was not ready to comb the promises.
Power of poverty and deprivation
has brought together the broken hearts.

Let’s kill the syllables after inferno
dousing the truth of life. Who knows
when we will meet in darkness.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 8 czerwca 2012

CROSSING NAMES

Unrepenting you start
from a sore point
to ask an explanation
from an eclipse of the sun.

unreviving,
a corpse, the moon carries the burden
of light, on its bloodied shoulder
for burial in dew.

Half the century we were
reciting the prayers to open
a blocked artery of a dying god
who would not share our bandages.

The bride steps out
from dark,
unveiled, and undoes the hairs.
There was fire in her eyes
and ice on her lips.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 7 czerwca 2012

MONILIA

Irreverent arsenic of lake bottom
was seeping in me
I was riding on waves, moon-stuck.

The nude shot
of anemone, blindfolded
after the criminal assault.
Why they were throwing the lewed comments?

A raw cave
of white pain, drags the deity out
and dances on hawthorns.
The butchers become sick,
sick to the bones.

O democracy, king was not wise,
wise was not king.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 4 czerwca 2012

HUNGRY

Be my sleep, I tell a dream.
A lantern was chasing the shadows
on wall. My fever?
I say, past one awakening
I will sleep eternally.

The age licks the grief of fallen
pride. I was still walking on
sharp stones, bleeding inside.
Howling,
here I come from the caves.

A whole truth becomes unholy
when mixed with crackers and has
a loud noise. Let the river of life
flow in breast in night of hunger
without a provider.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 3 czerwca 2012

Obsessıon

Would not place any price-tag
on me. Like a mannequin dug out from a pit
goes for sale.

Abhor the duplicity.
Want to walk straight –
without the golden thong.

The city goes in flames
in a circle.
A new fountain was singing.

They were landing in flocks.
The old birds of same plumage
coming to collect the due of old virgins.

There was no message.
Letterbox was empty.
I will not wait for snowfall in the Antarcita.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 2 czerwca 2012

Molten Grief

Give me back,
me back, my affections.
I had planted the kisses on
melting lamps.

The dark tunnel goes
to a lake for a rendezvous
with pink death on white lips
of cinders.

Such agony of wintering tree.
Not a single bird
on the branches to pump the green
blood for the wheels of time.

The speeding moon was in hurry,
to question the oppressed night.
Why the days were becoming
shorter and shorter?

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 30 maja 2012

COLLATERAL

When the curtain falls, the puzzled instinct
inherits the confusion of clouds. The beleaguered
moon goes into a rage. Hungry vultures start
a wait for the fall of a titan, stimulating the sun

to exhibit the trove of the golden rings. Go
blackberries, with bloody roses into the dawn.

Whole night our bones had gone crazy. Flickering
like stars on the lake of speechless body.

All his life he was searching for the windows
to let in the fire for burning up the boots.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 29 maja 2012

Rendezvous

Wanting more of you
in the bed of moon,
where present and past
were disrobing.

The bee stings, O my god,
arrange the pure darkness
of milk,
hanging on persona of future.

The yielding was painful,
its blankness. You were
collecting the hooks. I was letting
free the fish.

Green was my perch
on the white paper,
rewriting your name without ink
for the sake of hunting the lamp.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 28 maja 2012

FOURSOME

A complex ego:
lips on a flame
like Kama Sutra.

Starless night
to probe a moon
going downhill.

A needle in hay
protects the wound
of a kiss.

Portrait was incomplete
without pilot
to fly a plane:

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 27 maja 2012

EXCHANGE

This road will not take you to a theme.
In wind,
a pebble was making different strokes.
Hanging stones were hiding
the music of poppies.

To fill in my glass of silver
I place the stitches in images
of naked wounds, slapping the
pink roses on lips, the shadow
of terrible interior crawling out in tears.

The incredible space between hollyhocks
bends down to pick up dead silk
of fallen monarches. The colors will
find the other side of moon
in dark, except infinity.

Satish Verma