Satish Verma, 2 august 2020
The spat between the hydra
and sea,
was the end of perfect relationship.
Now an unqualified, unknowing-
will take on the depression.
Were you feeling liberated? I would ask the moment.
Let us delete
the faces and go to war
without limbs.
This was a summer afternoon.
The books are in cauldron-
and you are praying alone.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2020
Spurned,
staring into a void-
for a door,
burning a sage.
Wearing a veil to ward off
the curse.
You start the baby steps
getting there, near the noose,
weighing the planks.
Now you are breathing fast,
getting a hit, counting
the hymns.
The corrupt booms
rise and fall.
An overt withdrawal
from the bet, to sacrifice the bliss.
White lilies washed,
in tears, let down the shawls.
You can see the holy vice.
Satish Verma, 31 july 2020
What is that of this,
I will ask from the question
which sleeps on the twisted lip.
The probity suffers,
when you burn your white paper.
Why did not you write your name?
The cortex invades
medulla. Your kidneys falter.
The sense and price become one.
A nude opend the pride.
The curves, the slants will
ask you to become the flic,
but you become a god,
accept the knife's version
and bleed to death.
Satish Verma, 30 july 2020
There was a trust deficit
between the rose petals, under
the wheels and the moving feet.
It does not resolve the ancient
conflict of man with
the machine via perfume.
The smell of the pungent smoke,
sits in the empty chairs,
when you were left alone on the burning deck.
Where the sky meets
the ocean, my ship had sunk
amidst the blood and the blaze.
In absentia, I am baffled
by the time's minute, when the search
of the self goes unending.
Satish Verma, 27 july 2020
I was preparing myself
for a Socratic dialogue, when
you come unannounced.
If lie was the answer,
then where was the truth.
Meet me night before
night with naked names,
smashing the space and time.
The invisible particles at last are in view.
Can you count after the
trillionth number, eighteenth
digits and beyond.
Nothing gives me peace.
I want to say, I am the God
to end the discussion.
That ignites an explosion
and we begin our journey again.
RENATA, 26 july 2020
[wszystkie baby z ,ławki
choćta do poprawki]
jak malowane starsze panie
z pozoru miłe kulturalne
każda powie dzień dobry i zagada
a potem jazda sąsiada obgada
tylko przy niepogodzie
jak to bywa w przyrodzie
za tapetą kryje się jędza
która plotką plotkę napędza
to w kościele to w parku na ławce
obrabia cudze dupy przyklei łatkę sąsiadce
gdy deszcz pada zza szyb wypatruje
jak żmija wiedzma i Mata Hari się zachowuje
błądzi wtyka nos surfuje i szpieguje
jedna z drugą baba jaga paznokcie maluje
okularki i fryzurka dobrej babci z podwórka
po demakijażu wychodzi jaszczurka
można rzec że to kameleon
barwy zmienia
a to ta pani z naprzeciwka
jest aż tak słodko wścibska
Satish Verma, 26 july 2020
Perched on a tree high
wave,
a moon was talking long
to me.
A live-in partenership
was in vogue. We always
loved each other breasts apart.
The weather was changing.
A plane load of tears would
disappear without a trace.
From somewhere a benign
lump explodes, making night,
a brilliant dream of
sleeping sky.
The hare jumps on the moon,
to snatch away the ambulatory
age, browsing around the death.
Satish Verma, 25 july 2020
Between the swaying palms,
moon was moving
in armada.
Why did you come
late, to whisper, of the
explosive explicit?
But for a lone
cry, I would not
take you.
The jewels were mine.
You had stolen
from my waistband.
It substracts the
stings from my
hobbling gait.
Satish Verma, 24 july 2020
Being you,
not the bee queen.
Volatile as it appears, would say
one day, I don't know you yet.
The estranged mogul
returns home, empty-
handed.
Don't tell me in
stark and straight words, one
needs clemency.
The flame had touched me.
A strange panorama, created
by the geometry of violence,
now hurts.
Speed and direction
liberates the path breaker.
Resonance of your voice rises,
reading the same poem
again and again.
Segmented icons would not sleep
on the same bed.
Satish Verma, 23 july 2020
When you take a false
lead, life will undo the seeds
and the cataracts freeze.
This is the story of
a butterfly, in disturbing amber
buried in snowfall.
Can your body take the imprints of flogging?
When you start sketching the polar ice
in the story of death, compounding
the mystry of
unleashing sea
of the fawn eyes, whose message
was sent in water?
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