Satish Verma, 26 august 2017
Nibbling at a piece of moon
I lost the zero line
of my violence
mapping the lone
jungle.
The waning light
flaunting the peaks
for docking
the missile
in dark.
The body of water,
prior to the tempest,
will invite the brown
creator to pull
the ropes.
The past reappears,
shows presence.
I search word anchors
to reach
buoyancy.
Satish Verma, 25 august 2017
On lotus leaf
a frog sits meditating-
the parenthood.
Fetal coaxing,
was on trial. Will you
come to witness?
A premature
death of a dream. Who
was responsible?
Sztelak Marcin, 24 august 2017
Z braku lepszych porównać klnę
na czym świat stoi.
Bo tak naprawdę nie jestem pewien
jego okrągłości.
Nigdy nie spadłem na głowę w kosmos,
na drogę mleczną. Nawet zamrożoną
jak lody kręcone w czasach biblijnych.
Ale to dywagacje pozbawione celu
skoro ostatni kaktus zakwitł
na brudnym piachu, do tego kompletnie
pozbawiony kropli mocniejszego.
Deszczu.
Satish Verma, 24 august 2017
Round dahlias.
Your eyes have started speaking.
Let there be a dialogue-
between two lovers-
under the glare of sun-
once again, initiating a tropical storm.
Oscillation.
A tendril moves in swings
to catch a mate.
The body finally surrenders
to a flame. A yellow cinder
starts a white fire.
A cindrella finally walks
out of ashes to find a pen
leafing the pain in colors.
Satish Verma, 23 august 2017
The window was closing.
Whole life went by,
to understand oneself,
trying to find the true meanings of words,
using myself as a bait.
To read or not to read the unwritten,
blank page. A dot
a dash, a comma, parenthesis.
They were trying to find
the signature pains.
A green rust starts burying
the crumbling wall. The cognitive
climb gets a setback. Suddenly
the peeling off starts, of makeup.
You stand naked.
Satish Verma, 19 august 2017
For a good road map you need
whistling words and biting
flies of porn videos.
You go overboard when you
see a virgin falling from
podium of a hundred smiles.
Sitting in skin only who wants
a tattoo of a butterfly, when
the book goes for a sale?
Gettysburg water for the joints.
Do you need some of it when
the economy has pored off the poems?
A courtesan becomes the bride
of the city. The grooms were many
but no body wants to sit on a mare.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2017
There was an unease in the flock
of lovebirds. The lynx was on
calling again every night.
An execution on a wheel
was a better choice
than to die without speed of kill.
Cannibalism becomes alive
when you start eating live-
words without shedding a dropp of blood.
What was the urgency to invite
Ginsberg on paper? The ink
was still superstitious.
It was invisible.
The destruction of an impregnable.
When the moon explodes, where will you go?
Satish Verma, 17 august 2017
No thought was enough
from a stunning fall.
I am leaving the paradise.
In urn the past moves like
a weightless peony. I am
touching your lips.
The drowned wand. Can you
pick up the future from the time's
lake? I am a fish now.
Tiny beads on shut eyes. Are
you watching my burning house?
I am still inside.
His blindness or my grace;
when you would like to kiss?
The pricks were on the floor.
Satish Verma, 16 august 2017
No thought was enough
from a stunning fall.
I am leaving the paradise.
In urn the past moves like
a weightless peony. I am
touching your lips.
The drowned wand. Can you
pick up the future from the time's
lake? I am a fish now.
Tiny beads on shut eyes. Are
you watching my burning house?
I am still inside.
His blindness or my grace;
when you would like to kiss?
The pricks were on the floor.
Satish Verma, 15 august 2017
Yawning of dawn.
I scribble a note for night
to come again.
And I try to write a triolet
in memory of moon;
who forgot to say goodbye.
A pigeon flutters in my chest
for a beautiful bride,
who was fond of pecans.
I have not much to show
except my trembling hands
which could not light the -
lamp in dark for once, to
read the face of eternity.
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