Poezja

After seeding the clouds
they were going to buy wet lips.

Seven minutes to make a bomb:
a micro-chip, ammonium nitrate and a circuit,
one headless body squirts a long jet of blood.

Run, run for the cover, with nuggets of
wailing times. Black walls intercept the flames.
A nimbus suspends the door.

Cryptic commands fail. A body sprawls
on payment for wheels to move. You
hand me a child to find his bilolgical mother.

A long manifesto makes the cadaver shrink.
Clocks spin in frenzy. Mirrored people
look like ghosts. A city burns.


Satish Verma