Satish Verma, 16 marca 2014
The bald mannequin, stands
undraped, without genitalia
moving the lips.
The choreographer walks in
caressing the knobs
to open the invisible door.
There would be knife between the teeth
and dance in the flames
to lift up the veil,
to kill the sorrow and pain.
A spill from the eyes becomes
red. The whispers
will decide the prices.
Glass case will never be empty.
Sweet show will continue.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 17 marca 2014
Trading the sweetness, a rainbow
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks
and drink the elixir of death.
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler,
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass.
The pink goddess of wealth
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica
will decide the future of grass.
The moon ride has become cheaper in cans
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god.
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable
in groves jacarandas were smiling.
Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers
between the pages of history
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 18 marca 2014
Green eyes in the crevices of rocks
will not let the fossil weep
for innocent sun.
A mayfly floats like
a dry leaf on water, in the circuit
of sharks.
I offer not my robotic arm, insulting
the jaws in the crumpled solitude
of night. I will walk
with new moon to understand
the wetting of a bleeder,
heart and soul.
The umbilical pain again catches. I cry
in my own silence. This was not the
end I wished. Hearing aid
to feel the sting of a scream,
which rises from the depth of a blue
lake wounded by pride.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 22 marca 2014
The promised apple I did not eat.
The red skin started bleeding
in my palm. Butterfly flesh
was unable to glide.
Two round, intense eyes were chasing me.
A namesake volcano
bursts open in my chest,
then I notice the flowing lava
from hungry eggs.
The earth will not conceive again.
In the backyard a blue jay
was waiting for the golden seed.
I suck a fatal tweak
in the sundrunk green.
Thirsting for the logic will never the unmade.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 23 marca 2014
That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.
Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.
I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.
Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 25 marca 2014
What do you think
a redemption of a clone will work
in the galaxy of stars?
The hope was drying and violence
refuses to decline in the valley of flowers.
Orphaned moon climbs up the hill
to preside over the murmuring truths.
Nothing seems to work
for the liberation of long night
and the winds put off the lantern’s light
which was standing on the shore.
A black widow crawls on my chest
for a certain drenching by a sucked heart.
Still I stare at the black eyes
for a washed up death.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 26 marca 2014
Writing on my sleeves,
I visualize an invisible coupling
of grassroots with starless sky,
when I walk on the wailing earth.
Hails big as sparrow eggs
smash the bougainvillea blossoms.
The wrestling clouds
begin a storm.
Witchcraft of the moon begins.
The pubic curve of a rock
holds a centipede
wriggling, gnawing.
A spider climbs the weatherbeaten
cheekbone
and indulges in navel-gazing.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 27 marca 2014
Like I want to erase the fear
before I light a remote fire
in the blue veins.
Actually this was the crisis of self pride
in manic depression
seeking the anonymity of toes
tracing the footpath.
Becoming a paper-boat
in the winds of flesh and fancies
on the choppy sea of death.
No spinal pain for candles
to burn in courtyard
of sunken faith.
Red grapes in a tiny bowl
leap to lips of sun
for sons and daughters. Ajmer, INDIA
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 28 marca 2014
Always he was picking up and counting the pins
to distill the essence of rainbows
and find the symmetries of elementary
laws and eating leftover words from the table.
The terrorists had wired his house and he was
not aware of it. The wrinkles on the face
for the bridge destroyed, would not bring
peace within. Times were different, icy and slippery.
He hated only himself for the failure of ships
to sail through the scope of explosions
rage and tears. The madness of unchaste
happenings submerging the cognition.
His tongue was heavy, hands writing the epitaph
on air. The bald eagle scoops a bride,
slices the breasts for the green stigmata
of liberation. Ajmer, INDIA
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 29 marca 2014
Unveiled,
the moon will find you
after morose beginning
of becoming – me
Homophobia creeps in,
beyond the condemnation,
the incompleteness.
You walk straight in the arms
of contradiction, confusion
smearing the wall
with your crimson, nihilistic words.
Every other person
a demi – god
stands on your fears, sends whispers
down your ears.
To abdicate the colleagues
of dawn.
Satish Verma
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