Satish Verma, 9 january 2019
Moving between the spaces,
you fell short of a small―
sky and you give up the grid,
your secrets.
A sense is lost of direction,
and place. The opaque mind
will not tell even once, where
you are.
Wrestling with your conscience,
and demons, underside of
the palette, you become ready for
a self-potrait.
A drinking spree of moon
after a cease; where were you
going. I ask? Shell-shocked, you
pretend, what you have been.
Satish Verma, 8 january 2019
Eating each other,
the survival instinct takes you
to the coal-pit.
*
Seeking the closure
of gold mine. The jellyfish
has lost the stinging tentacles.
*
The beehive was in
turbulence. Golden honey was
going up for sale in famine.
Satish Verma, 7 january 2019
Like a large, black,
stag beetle, you give a sermon
on living. You don’t believe
in death.
Ready to jump from the
cliff, how did you reach there?
Slipping through the
cracks of a marathon!
Amid fear and anxiety
hitting the raw line of finish
with tranced frenzy.
After glass and long kisses,
did you eat the prickly pears ?
On the way to salvation, you
were giving very―
uncharitable commentary
at the terminus.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2019
It plays tricks.
Rattles the animal, inside you.
Back to back, you start giving names.
It had happened―
under his watch. Opuntia.
It spreads like a cobra head.
Prickly fruits. Represents death and bones.
How the people believe you,
when I am thirsty,
I wanted blood.
The skin becomes black. Stones
shine in sun. You extend
the hand to touch the mirage.
No water. The black bucks
turn around. Somebody shoots
them between the eyes.
Satish Verma, 4 january 2019
The odor brings the
neo-violence, along the fault line.
Standing on the road.
You,
do not want to go right, or left.
Chemoreceptors will warn about
the incoming quake.
They will crush the blooms, the
corrupt winds.
The landscape was changing.
The unlikeness, when you come
back from woods.
You do not mean anything.
Words don’t convey the full meaning.
The thoughts will find a poem.
Satish Verma, 3 january 2019
I walk through the slush
of moral grief.
Here lies my mortal poem.
A prodigal menace.
You will not breathe in, the
golden grass, once more.
Lingering beside the past, the
savage today. I pick up
the silence of the tomb.
Lateral conjugation. You
come from the otherside to
breach the wall, bear the
pluralism-
and become none. The under-
belly, the yellow blood?
Will you hold my hand
to cross the meaning?
Renato N. Mascardo, 1 january 2019
every
decision that
we make we always think
we ought to rethink not leaving
what is well enough
alone//
renato
monday 31 december 2018
Renato N. Mascardo, 1 january 2019
before
poets troped the word
anatomists knew the
aortic and pulmonary
vessels
hollow
cables holding
down the fort we call
our heart//
renato
monday 31 december 2018
Satish Verma, 31 december 2018
A damp moon
staggers across the sky.
I will find my balance now.
*
Meditating on
the words and meaning,
I read your face.
*
Quasi-intelligent,
half-man, half-beast,
the new species.
Satish Verma, 29 december 2018
It was in reach for,
a chilling sensation.
A flame of the moon.
The world shrinks.
You become ready
for the direst consequences.
You deserve to be hurt
in the arms of truancy,
without a trace of remorse.
The wounded breast.
It wanted to disappear―
and come back in dark.
Frozen, the repeat hymn.
It lives in my heart.
How can I forget you,
O, my tormentor!
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