Satish Verma, 23 kwietnia 2012
Wanted to visit old lanes
for a mocking bird.
A luminous proxy wanted to play a game.
Treachery flees from
the trees and settles
on the white wings of flying swans.
No logarithm will stop
to watch the invisible
numbers going for infinity.
Tomorrow I go back to my
school, to wear my fallen mask.
The world was very obtuse to watch a setting sun.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 22 kwietnia 2012
In search of peace
he burnt down his books,
living precariously,
as colors were shifting.
After the disengagement
there was anger and chaos.
In the swirl of mudslides
the mountains stood erect & high.
Caste, color and creed
on coffee table,
for a birthday party of democracy.
A drone fell on the crowd.
The maniac depression divides
the butterflies into pathless lies.
The grass was blue
and sky was red.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 21 kwietnia 2012
Beyond the sex
he was sleepwalking in shame
hiding his faith ingloriously.
A poacher in harem
of politics, where you stack the hidden
virility for killing the money.
A single mate must die
making love on screen in the vicinity
of god’s house.
The monstrous lie will
press the knife to the lips
for shedding the blood of a monk in a brothel.
If we must forget
the accidental shot,
the spring will never come to olive grove.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 20 kwietnia 2012
Evening wore a floral dress.
Blue birds announced their departure
opening red wings.
You know them, buffs
of night who would not wait for the moon
to rise and I had nothing to hide.
These tragic toes
black with gangrene
still want to mount on red clovers.
That anatomy of desire
will dance with snakes. Who knows
the beautiful anxiety of lying on hawthorns?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 19 kwietnia 2012
After plundering the moon,
the skins
have dug their heels in candles –
for a night vigil.
Why you want to know the hidden meaning
Of a benign meaningless.
The beginning and end
were most visible tragedies
of an endless affair with invisible enemy.
Unsaying was very sincere
to truth if words were not mutilated.
Pure murder of an illusion in whispering sands.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 17 kwietnia 2012
The path was becoming pathless
after seeking the deluge.
Gunslingers were climbing on trees
to shoot the white doves.
There were ice needles in my eyes
to check the inheritance of height.
Desires move with a feline grace, lynx-eyed.
You taste me like a lamb.
I am unfolding,
layer by layer;
year by year. From end to beginning.
The benign tumors are going to attack
my afterlife.Falling, falling
my bliss in midnight of words,
across the solace of killer gaze,
on a stretch of ancient footprints.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 16 kwietnia 2012
Snippets of truth
come to you,
when you chase the anger and set yourself
on fire. An intimate slap of a fall guy
rages after the defiance.
You are no longer bleeding gold.
A windowless home
for the defiled, waits for you
at the end of the road.
The democracy has drained out all the symbols.
Behind the grain now lies the eye;
behind the wood now fire rages.
A stretch of pair on ethnic hills.
Wings unfold,
but light goes out.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 15 kwietnia 2012
Waiting for a prickly path
at crossroads,
where desolation sits in
between words and flesh.
Hanging shells on windows
where light immigrated
to prophecies of Buddha.The
violence will never end.
Can you find some space
between the bullets? Between
the contrasts lie the black
thoughts and sick arguments.
Through the comets who will shoot
bleeding flag?
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 14 kwietnia 2012
Beings of erotica were
at the gates of heaven.
Shell-shocked, the city was becoming political
but people were absconding.
It was global warming
for obscenity. The remoteness
was collapsing and moons
had come in my arms.
Smoking the serrated leaves
and glandular hairs, hurling
yourself on the pathway to estasy
to forgive and to forget.
The blue mercury was
ascending. Anti-depressants were
not working. You don’t own the
phrases. Words were becoming surrogate
for thoughts. We embrace the fall.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 13 kwietnia 2012
Behind your face
was cleaver
releasing past poem.
The sensual milk
flows from the palm
into your lake.
Grieving for
the torn wings of pink
light.
Cruising on thighs
with eyes closed
death utters a shriek.
The eternal flame
closes on pollen
to tell a lie.
Satish Verma
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