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.
Satish Verma, 29 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.
Satish Verma, 28 december 2020
Like a snake
it moves.
My poem.
You are not, what you were
in the night, lightning
the grey moon.
I hear, what you
did not say or did-
not think.
Even dark
forebodings, move like red
ants, from the slit eyes.
I cover the faults
via songbird, which
was calling, desperately,
unwaitingly.
Satish Verma, 27 december 2020
You decline to speak-
to listen-
to see
like a meditating Buddha.
Like a sunflower
with moon seeds,
ready to explode at sunset.
Strangulated-
neck, hanged from a tree
to tell the tale-
that you were violated.
This was the principle of
cosmic order. Poor god
waits for the world
to show the rage.
I wake up the tree.
Leaves fall like unspoken words
from the decaying oak.
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