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Satish Verma, 18 june 2019
Will You Leave Me?
I did not mean to hurt.
Do not try to flute―
drinking the lianas,
wearing a fatigue. Then comes―
the shoot. Like a scarecrow
I sway― the slug― passes through me.
You ask me to turn over―
the death mask―
giving a smile. There was no
reprisal. Must bring under reins―
the pounding heart― I cannot talk.
Alone to mend my grief, the
scaled loss of bliss. Do not want to
use any metal. Poverty becomes
my strength. Fears will stand with me.
I am empty like a glass.
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Satish Verma, 16 june 2019
Scattered Thoughts
Coming to an end the
consecration. The land will
not give you any god.
Only the demons will come in your dreams.
If it were window, the
street will send the black
noises in your house.
I will not wait
for snow-melting.
The slum was going to be
sliced off.
Wet from the rainfall,
the grain cannot be milled
and you will not eat my sprouts.
I cannot sail now.
It must be very dark
and the glossary
very foul.
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Satish Verma, 15 june 2019
No Saviour
Out of ambit― you resume
the surfing again― on
yellow tulips―
in misting valley.
One who will not bless
the seed― will sit
in shadow of hunger.
Do not touch the―
impossible blue of the
eyes, unhunted by the tears.
Snare or be snared. If
there was a flint and
the steel― do you think the
spark will be faraway?
In silent night, I will open
the crypt to have a look again―
at the wornout cloak of a paragon.
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Satish Verma, 14 june 2019
Self-Portrature
A freak hailstorm of
proposition, makes you―
deaf and mute. The sex
orientation― will not remain the same.
It was not pink― it was not
blue. A thunder breaks the
roof― of calligraphy. A
beautiful face― goes manic.
About the harvesting― I
would say ― it was all
humbug. You can wear a gem
in your eyes― and still not go stone blind.
The prayer will have a
summer wedding. All the―
lavenders will bring all the
blues and all the mauves.
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Satish Verma, 13 june 2019
The Dancing Tale
I do not remain happy
with noises of wisdom.
Time was running out on me
to know myself.
No sensory cognizance. I
touch you with my invisible
hands, stroking the hair
to dislodge the moon.
Ashes lay strewn. River
was overflowing from the
banks of limbs. I will not
come near the unfathomable
depth of a chasm, between
good and bad. Out of the bed
of roses a snake uncoils.
Praise the dark. It in night.
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Satish Verma, 12 june 2019
The Dancing Tale
I do not remain happy
with noises of wisdom.
Time was running out on me
to know myself.
No sensory cognizance. I
touch you with my invisible
hands, stroking the hair
to dislodge the moon.
Ashes lay strewn. River
was overflowing from the
banks of limbs. I will not
come near the unfathomable
depth of a chasm, between
good and bad. Out of the bed
of roses a snake uncoils.
Praise the dark. It in night.
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Satish Verma, 10 june 2019
Unbegotten
Shedding the knowledge
I was aware of emptiness,
that will allow me
to watch from afar―
the message coming from
the locked doors.
Getting nearer the gorge
you want to look at your spitting image―
in water. I hinge an old frame
to find me in baby face. Did you
see your future visits to
cauldron of life?
You never wanted to become
a god of wayfarers. A tinge
of stupidity was evident to renew
your faults to remain human.
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Satish Verma, 9 june 2019
Rising Rage
After the blast, the
morning gets wise, and
does not spill the sun.
And the dead will not
come back to celebrate
the dark after the rage.
There, on the white peaks,
the splattered blood will
draw the face of assassin.
Do not enter the dome of
seething screams. The priest
hangs by the bell.
O, my brother, why we
have become coldblooded after
thousand years of pilgrimage?
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Satish Verma, 8 june 2019
No Love Song
In black midnight,
the white moon, like a nun
sits stonely.
The sliding moon is toxic
and you are not ready to
die for the theme.
The high priests will
weave the faux mantras to
invoke the goddess of wealth.
The debt pervades in every
relief. I survive the ignominy
of not touching a yogi.
And you, little brown bread,
will not feed the thousands
who come clamouring for a bite.
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Satish Verma, 7 june 2019
After The Snow Storm
It tumbles down. The real.
Heels start hurting.
Once upon a night, there
was a red moon, which used to hang
on your head and I
would watch something beyond.
No outburst of profanity
will take place, when you were
dissecting a triangle―
of rainbows. I will not
assemble the waist of a tall tree
after the fruit fall.
Gone with the snow, my
temple, my god. I am now
waiting for the looters of rings.
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Latest comments:
18 june 2019
jesienna70
głośna ta cisza:) a kolana to mamy chyba z
18 june 2019
erotyk z gatunku polisensorycznych:)
18 june 2019
alt art
kłamstwem jest, że z daleka trudniej kochać..
18 june 2019
wciąga się przez nos; z tym, że zamiast karty
18 june 2019
smokjerzy
barany mnie denerwują, owieczki - rozczulają
18 june 2019
a czym to się je...
18 june 2019
ma się rozumieć! :))
18 june 2019
trzimam sandały z dala od gwiazd, nawet tutejszych
18 june 2019
nie no, moja kulpa, już poprawiam :)) dzięki!
18 june 2019
Jaga
Nie każdy ma tak wyostrzony zmysł powonienia...W
18 june 2019
A baranów do liczenia mnóstwo, że o owieczkach
18 june 2019
jeśli tylko
piór..
18 june 2019
wiesiek
18 june 2019
jesienna70
18 june 2019
Herbert Witzen
18 june 2019
Herbert Witzen
18 june 2019
Herbert Witzen
18 june 2019
Herbert Witzen
18 june 2019
Herbert Witzen
18 june 2019
Satish Verma
17 june 2019
wiesiek
16 june 2019
Jaga