Satish Verma, 5 february 2018
Ethics of brands will find
out the anatomist,
who will rip apart the hope
from the bones.
Death will come from
underside. The sky
will remain blue even after
the murder of the moons.
The revenge at dawn
was very painful. The
crows will scatter the
light from your hands.
The mobile towers had
come to a standstill.
Sparrows had become suspicious,
left for a holy bath.
Satish Verma, 4 february 2018
Midnight encounter.
In moon, on sand.
Why you were igniting a sheltered home
of wounded pride?
The blood spills
over the sea, in boat.
You were unrelenting, against traction
violence of unhappenings.
The blackness blooms.
A man will cross midstream,
writing on water the name of a lamb
who refuses to surrender.
I sit between the
kisses of dragonflies.
An empty paper nest waits for the wandering
wasps to come back with stings.
Satish Verma, 3 february 2018
Seizing a chance in
a trice, in one dark September
night of apotheoses-
a bird crashed in my
lap. I would not know
the virginity of the strange surrender.
The windows were tall,
with the black laces violating
the sovereignty of light.
I will not know you, will
not call the black magic,
will not transcend the body.
The white lilies were
staring down at water.
Was the dawn nearby?
Satish Verma, 2 february 2018
You had the numbers.
The reverse trends begins-
with uneasy and dark ambush.
A fatal miscue. You
will get the message.
The fingerprints will stay on the wall.
Enduring the onslaughts.
Remaining sky-clad I
will wander in your arms.
Fighting with the curves,
on sleepy islands, will
you hail my outstanding landing?
The revelation has a price.
You will not open the envelope
till I am dead.
Satish Verma, 1 february 2018
For a moonshine,
there was no moon.
There was no moon
for a moonshine.
It starts a tenuous
soliloquy, raising a –
slew of questions.
Slew of questions will
evoke a mixed response.
Were you ready for
a sleepover at the shrine
to watch the St. Vitus’s dance.
It was leaking at night
from the corner of eyes.
Unaging was the secret
of polity. Are you in?
Satish Verma, 31 january 2018
No stitches will work.
You have to navigate-
in mendacities.
You have to navigate-
in mendacities to find
the truth, the truth.
A papyrus write may
know the future, the destiny,
the future, the destiny.
You always run to piss
at the tree, to draw
the borders. The animal.
The animal within you, becomes
salmonella, dones a cap,
enters the dome.
Enters the dome.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2018
The smile conceals, something.
Does not offer any cue.
You were still traveling
within.
You wanted to leave the world,
as it was, without cleaving
the wood, not accepting the veneer.
It rang an alarm bell.
To evolve their own persona;
good to take their own path.
The fallout was widening.This
was an insider’s story.
What an audacious withdrawl;
and you were in a silent mode like a Buddha
to uptake the film of dust
settling on the innocent rape of book.
Satish Verma, 28 january 2018
First encounter was skimpy
unleashing a terror
of tales. I will not find the
perfect body of a poem.
Remember,
the salt lake, where you were
drowned one day in the eyes
of the needle.
It was an ode for the failed
prophecy which predicted
the fall of an author
in the ravines of jealousy.
A trampled butterfly exudes
the yellow fumes. Meanwhile
you can draw a nude on
the road for bystanders.
Satish Verma, 27 january 2018
The tiny thrusts
and a blunt fuel
scrambled over the wet contours.
There was an ephimerality
in overdue kisses
of death.
The interplay of sex
and spirituality starts,
bites the bullet and pushes the boat.
The pungency of an elegy
was a secondhand divorce
with death.
Jealousy: sand was
under the nails. Now
I will find the remains of an ocean
in your eyes. There was nothing
else to be done than taking off
the bikini top like a death.
Satish Verma, 26 january 2018
Spherules start a pincer attack
on the modesty of an epiphany.
The manifestation was incomplete.
The windows were very small in-
the wind-palace. Only ringdoves
were sitting on the sills, cooing all day.
They were sitting in a row; cross-
legged, the naked monks. As a penance
they were getting the scalp hair pinched off.
Swearing will not help. You need to
suffer like a forgotten language,
like grass blades who bend again & again.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
