Satish Verma, 6 august 2016
While drinking the long night
you became taller than the eternal
question, bitten by the moon.
Witchhunting will not stop
in oligarchy. A human right
stands on the ivory gate to enter the dust.
The weightlessness is paraded
nude amongst the full-lipped
follies of ornamental speech.
The duende was lacking in palace.
Rivals held the moonlight.
Now the muse will become celibate.
A giant mantis hops on a podium
to bless the dying god, and the candle
burns whole night.
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
to tekst niealfabetyczny
podpisujący się trzema krzyżykami
(pod jednym śpi drewniany smok
zgadnij pod którym)
czytasz- i widzisz jak na dłoni
że to poezja dotknięta mutyzmem
wycofana z życia
to park kryjący w sobie uroczy cmentarzyk
zdzierasz wierzchnią warstwę granitu i piasku
odsłania się fragment, połyskująca kość
fragmenty łusek
i żar stopiony w strzałkę
wiesz że prowadzi do wewnątrz
fałszywy kierunek
tam tylko drzwi- na głucho
odźwiernego pochowali w zeszłym roku
obiecywał że wróci
z torbą pełną jabłek
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
z ziemi florskiej- pod włos!
- mój nocny Stróż szczerzy nie najświeższe zębiska
a jakbyś przyciął pióra
poglądy- koniecznie w wybielacz
podleczył wyznanie(za bardzo zawiewa wonią blachy!)?
- pytam gościa z szyb i luster
może zawołać go/ ich/ nas
owinąć mapą i poczęstować
pseudochińską zupką z folii
niech znają miejsce w szeregu, zapamiętają
trasę zawodów (no dobrze- ucieczki
przed Gwardią Szwajcarską)
może uda się zająć któreś z pierwszych miejsc
e, jednak znielubiłem tych ja- ludków
odkąd przyłapałem jednego w szpilkach
z harlequinem w dłoni
-gardzi mi się, podśmiechuje
leciutko
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
w czasach rozkwitu rzadko zapinano nas pod szyję
praca była groźną używką
pycha- w dobrym tonie
uważaliśmy się za ćwierćcarewiczów (feldszczeniactwo!)
mediatorów w odwiecznym sporze
pomiędzy kruchtą a piwniczką
(poczekaj aż pękną, okaże się że w niepoświęconym
winie było więcej veritasu)
a potem rozpylono sen, zza niedokończonych
lasów dała się słyszeć melodia
(techno? dancehall?)
idziemy tak, drapiąc słowa piosenek
(czerwone flaki na Monte Cassino
- chłopaki
przyszłam na świat po to, aby kochać cienie
-laski)
weselicho się rozkręca, a my- w rozklekotanych halówkach
brzuchy z głodu- jak bębny pralek
franie wypełnione żwirem
bzdurzymy o dziewczynie, co to na rauszu
upadła na podłogę. twarz wrosła w dechy
zaraz przyplatał się pop czy pastor, oprawiono
głowę nieszczęśnicy w ramy
i wisi w jakiejś cerkwi, czy zborze
poczerniała od kopcących świec
upragniona biesiada- coraz dalej. państwo młodzi
pewnie doczekali się wnuków
oplatamy nowe historie, kaleczą się usta
nie rozdziobią nas pawie, nie rozwloką brony
na ikonie
krzywi się przedwcześnie postarzała buzia
Satish Verma, 5 august 2016
Do I have a choice
before knifing the page
for a meaning, when I was
drowned in a nostalgia?
Cinchona bark. This was my
keyword for living bitterly
under a tryant inciting
the riots of colors.
The digital death comes as
a reward for insane truth.
You turn the back on home
and walk towards the sea –
to count the empty shells on beach.
Here life completes a cycle
from emptiness to emptiness.
You are ready to go in void.
*On the death of Steve Jobs.
Gert Strydom, 4 august 2016
Will it last this romantic fantasy of shadow and light?
The crimson-red rising moon hangs low where we do walk
through this lovers-lane that it is making tonight.
You are right against me while of lasting love we talk.
Is it magic or a strange kind of reality
when your arms slip around my head,
when you do passionately kiss me
am I alive, in heaven or dead?
As if God on us does His blessing endow
when you promise to be my wife
your whole face does glow,
and this is a day in my and your life.
Satish Verma, 4 august 2016
Put off the lantern.
I am waiting for the moon’s
primal face. The lesser flamingoes
were going to shed the pink color.
Nude as a python, the kiss
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation.
I suffer in the hands of protests.
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle.
A barefoot noun feeds the junta.
The butter babies will serve the poetry
of poor on the mats of principles.
I will remain unslept on straw.
A newspaper eats the story this side.
After the bloodbath surgeons weep.
An armless lover hugs a priest
for not calling the gods.
steven cooke, 3 august 2016
The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
For a single malt can make a man hear
the ghosts from the past.
The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school
leaves a generals memory of war
bullies and a pregnant girls shame.
A school is a flag that I shall not pass
for its contents means nothing to me.
The wood that that lost its view
to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones
Can only cry in silence.
But I who was born in its shadow
found solitude and my fortress
Inside a tent of twigs
in a cold uncaring world.
My soul could never connect with
the wage packet teachers
who are as forgetful as me.
The boy who found his dreams
In the cover of the oak.
Whose presence still remembers
the torn book of Sassoon
thrown into the brambles discarded,
as the generation within it was.
I am the voice whose audience was the wood
and applause came from imagination,
though the spirits of the past looked on.
The immortality of silence
is only a pretender.
For it shouts within my soul of past memories,
Of a ghost I do not know
existing in the denial of god.
A being that time cannot touch.
And long after I am dead ,
the wind will carry this immortal feather
and in its dance a ghost will be seen.
Looking for a stolen pencil
and a torn book that nobody reads.
Satish Verma, 3 august 2016
Melting in the cauldron to feed,
until later, I will seek you
in parallel interpretations.
Presently, thoughts are very disturbing.
Human rights for animals
caged in peals
of god realization.
I was thinking to quit the stage.
Symptoms are horrific.
Neoplasm was spreading.
I am scared of the plague.
Sweet corns of sex:
million pieces smile,
drained out healing?
Who will save the river?
Discharges are crippling
the soft limbs,
the truth.
Man walks, shudders, falls
wants to rise again,
from the ashes of hate.
Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
There is something in how she looks at me and looks away again
and I think aloud Satan, Lucifer, demon, devil be gone
as she is going to seduce me with her summer sunshine laughter
in the twilight, dark night or bright day
with her eyes that glitter when she notices me
and I wonder if God does provide such lovely girls
with her walking away that continually whispers promises
and her voice that falls sweetly on my ear
but when she stands right in front of me
and talks to me my breath is taken away
and I notice a small muscle jumping, jumping in her throat
and her snow-white teeth, her hands, freckles and feet is something
against which I do not know how to resist
and then she brings her lips right against mine.
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