Satish Verma, 4 january 2021
You were not facing
the facts to defeat yourself-
with palm leaves wiping
away the stains of moon.
The confessions were not
valid in light. Darkness will
decide the fate of an exhibitionist.
In the game of survival,
onlookers become strangers.
You will not stand on your feet.
Invisible hands clap.
Sometimes we don't talk and look eyeful.
I have nothing to begin today
nothing to finish.
The sea swells up without a storm.
RENATA, 3 january 2021
Niejedno dziewczę
zaczyna karierę
od nóg
dociera tam nie jeden
bóg
anioł i zwierzę
mieczem
nacierając na raj
Ofiara bo ładna
bo chce dotrzeć
na szczyt
a roztrzaska się
o kant dupy
Dietę masz księżniczko
tylko białe i kieliszek
a nogi szerzej mocniej
bo pan chce dotrzeć
do głębi oceanu
Ten i ów morderca
rozumu i kobiecego serca
straszy głowę od strony dupy
a w hotelowych łóżkach
na ścianach i suficie
trupem śmierdzi życie
Renato N. Mascardo, 3 january 2021
at the next reunion
(for jh bacaling)
at the next reunion
when and where ever such
will be/ shall we claret and
champagne with panache
with abandon at the rave
or shall we be deliberate
at the next reunion
quaffing corona the lager
not the bug to such a precogitated
state of divine tipsiness
that we labialize vowels
gutturize sibilants all with a grin
at the next reunion
while we confabulate shared yesterdays
inebriated tonights hungover tomorrows
so we wait for the fete to come
with bated breath and bateless patience
when we can drink our mugs of corona
the lager not the bug undaunted unmasked
at the next reunion
but if
non compos mentis
sets in before then
all bets are off//
renato
saturday 2 january 2021
Satish Verma, 3 january 2021
Sometimes the unholy fears
come obliquely-
from the scorpions.
Tongue tastes the salt of spilled
hate. You execute the hooded anxieties,
creating a cadaver pyramid.
Stich-open-stitch. Cobra
in the bush. Awesome colors of eyes
Brown-blue-green.
I am not going to kiss
the chillies. Burning hot lips.
The contours were enticing.
I shut my eyes for a weird encounter.
The floors pulverized. I still
stand in mud, on my own.
Renato N. Mascardo, 2 january 2021
sensory
two pupils rotate
behind their lids
the two dilate
behind their shutters vainly
in the dark
two nostrils expand
inhaling the aroma
of her neck
the nose tip digs into the musk
in the dark
the pliant tongue slides
across and lingers
on each of her moistened lips
its tip basking in her yielding firmness
in the dark
the pupils finally
no longer stray
remain still at last
content in their imaginings
in the dark//
renato
friday 1 january 2021
Satish Verma, 2 january 2021
What you did not know
was the resilience
of tulips.
The riots start
in colors, earnestly. A violent
outburst of the theme of surrender
before dawn.
You kiss the irises,
blue, violet and crimson
for nominalism.
The vision emboldens-
the wounds, the slit throats-
to come again for guillotine.
A sliding blade
with promise to kill,
will not move.
Renato N. Mascardo, 1 january 2021
stewpot of memories
(for gene baňez)
like pipe
smoke embedded
in my father’s jacket
your tuitive musing of med
school days
wells in
me the scents and
flavors of the past we
all shared/ the anamnesis of
affairs
long gone/
the piquant and
the bitter we choose to
ignore/ savoring instead the
haut-gout
of past
dalliances
of faded friendships of
minionings that persist through time
that have
become
sweeter and sharp
the umami in the
stewpot of memories/ and
now in
this fagged
transactional
age of truthiness and
quid pro quo you may ask/ the price
that we
owe her
the exchange that
is really fair between
her and us/ the tuition-fee that
we paid
against
all that we got
are getting and will get
back from her plus memories so
priceless//
renato
thursday 31 december 2020
Satish Verma, 1 january 2021
Answering your own question,
wrapping the kill-
as manifestation of
God's will.
The old earth
still bears the fruits and
comes face to face with the
ungrateful human being.
Not touching your breast, I will
hear your heart beat
once-over.
Before the rains come,
the rage will sleep with the stones
and reconstruct a-
prehistoric fault.
Apollo wants to leave
Delphi and become a monk.
Satish Verma, 31 december 2020
Stares down, the grey
moon, fixedly,
in naked aggression…
Fire and brimstone.
I move one step, towards you. In semidarkness
I have lost the address
of peace.
The transgender, stumps
the ghost. There was no noun,
no pronoun, only an abstract
feel. Do you see the
wooly trail beating the dust?
When did you hit the dirt road
not to come back…
What was undone? After
the death of the cuckoo, there was
no wedlock in words.
Satish Verma, 30 december 2020
Like the banana peel
thrown on the sidewalk, you
come across the life.
And you still go on, in the-
search of moonlight-
without pills.
The drugged sleep.
Unorthodoxly you insult
the sun. And one-liners
go abegging for the listeners.
You are talking to your
peers now, long dead.
Fair amount of water, is
needed to sink.
The river merchant has brought
no fish.
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