Satish Verma, 9 january 2021
Intimacy in dark
carries the emptiness,
pauses in the way-
under the faint moon.
A homeless bird heads towards
the lake.
Passiflora.
The flowers remind you
of crucifixion.
The human loss was intense.
The fire within, extinguished.
No stone was ready to move.
Do you want the sound to be on?
The firmness now starts
melting. A holy river caresses
the bridge. Shores tremble.
Renato N. Mascardo, 9 january 2021
forty eight
the years since
we parted
you went your way
so did i
between then and
now
things and nothings
happened
and did not
leaves lucent and dark
have touched
our heads and hearts
we’ve seen the glitter
of lights so brief
we’ve felt the touch
of shadows so long
laughs and sobs
our ears have hearkened
our tears have washed
yet we are
you and i
after forty eight
still here//
renato
friday 8 january 2021
Satish Verma, 6 january 2021
A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.
It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.
A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?
At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.
No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2021
The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.
An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak
of the dead river, of elegy.
No life-
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice-
in north and south.
The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.
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.
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