Poezja

Satish Verma


Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 sierpnia 2022



There Was No Rebillion

Hiding the meaning
of life, you caused the
absurdity. Theater was not
ready for the audience.

An interim relief
comes for the aging. Blue
stars were moving away.
You will murder the sharks.

Skulls start playing. I
yell against the salt that splits
the tongue. Thick-lipped gods
start making the paper-nests
for the wasps.

Winter becomes warm-blooded.
There was no snow on
the trees. Owl butterflies
come out at dusk to collect
their dues.

When the sun sets, moon
shaped boys unroll the centuries.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 sierpnia 2022



Soul Mate

You were wired, I
won't let you go with zinnias
in this beastly night.

I hate them all, the
ad verbums. Go gently in sea
to drown yourself.

That half-eaten apple
in the rains brings the message
of a fallen angel.

Take me home when I
forget, who was me, standing
in moonlight, eyes shut.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 sierpnia 2022



Last Wishes

Like for Terra,
the goddess of the earth―
I will leave everything to you.

Hot legs run,
run for the sea of shame,
to wash the holy guilts.

It was a holocaust―
stonewalling to elicit,
the number of dead bodies.

Dark circles under
your eyes. I love them―
for the sake of darkness.

Prepare the swan
song for once, the blasts
were ready to encircle me.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 7 sierpnia 2022



The Moral Suicide

Skin to skin
you cut the psyche,
after severing off limbs.

Xenophobia takes you
out of my life,
breached and stranded.

I will move to
another consciousness
to renew the peace of death.

Love-haters abound
now. Multiple wounding
starts cloning of unborn ideas.

Microholes leak the
secret. Between words there
was no space, only time.

A comet blows away the
angel dust. I stand forlorn
on water.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 6 sierpnia 2022



On My Terms

Trying to forget, I forget myself.
Who am I? I had
an elective love for unknown.

As a gardener I was tending
you in my palms― a precious plum;
so soft that you
start wilting under the gaze.

The sharp edge― you gave,
to my phrases. I cannot use this
weapon against you―
when you want to leave.

I was very afraid of
disintegration. As far as you go
I will not touch you in
any downpour.

Eyes. lips and long―
black tresses. I won't need
anything more.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 5 sierpnia 2022



In Cursive Style

A bruise has appeared―
where you had kissed me,
last night. O Miranda―
I am not going for any other moon.

Like Uranus, I bleed
in my eyes; from every pore.
Astraphobia― I am going to
stay in dark.

This theology of aneurysms?
Who was hoodwinking
the ancient gods in the battle
of murderous themes? My hands
start shaking.

A blue rash spreads.
In honeyed voice you invoke
your angel and seek blessings―
before you go for a rape.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 4 sierpnia 2022



Reading Nietzsche

After knowing you,
I want to unknow me.

Did you reach the
head of the mount to bring
a piece of god?

Nonetheless,
he went mad asking for
godliness in stones.

When I wake, make
me go to sleep again, among those,
who are slaughtered
by tongue.

Dig me deep. My bronze,
my blood, are going in a free
death, like the fall from
the mission.

The muted thoughts
go for you,
in loud echoes.

I do not speak.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 3 sierpnia 2022



My Theology

I will do no harm
in asking the colors of
dazzling stripes so lovelorn
that they cling like reptiles.

Cold-blooded. Transcend
like seagulls, which dive
to catch their own images. You kept on
walking on cobble-stones.

Half your life sat between two
deaths. One of redwood
and other of falling star.
You want to go back to lake for a holy bath.

Ignites. You bleed like a
hidden wound. Never finishing―
of endless journey. You
will never find your namesake.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 1 sierpnia 2022



Uncannily

Tracing your eyebrows on paper―
eyes mine, we will
write together our religion.

Each night catches
my moons from the lake
of tears. The days were
becoming shorter.

Surely, I have not
arrived amidst the seekers
of easy death. You give me―
the hope of resuscitation.

I promise myself―
I will not give you a call―
till the nightingale sings in
mango grove.

All night it has rained.
Lacrimal. I prepare myself to
wash my eyes again―
to read your face.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 31 lipca 2022



The Will To Survive

Little birds
had become stone pelters.
Uneasy would lie the hands, that
had become avid pawns.

Sometimes you watch
the erotica, mating in air,
to listen to echoes
of self-destruction.

The stigma will not go.
Human judgment was
falling. You grab a Rilke
to find the answer.

If man was truth then
what was a beast?
don't commit the eye of god.
Every honour was fake.

The gay philosophy was
for yourself. I had been living
perilously, not hiding
behind the rituals.


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