Satish Verma, 3 października 2020
I would not bend the
truth. A grape in mouth
will stimulate the wedge.
Night will hammer on my chest
with glossy fists. I am born
again in your muteness.
A ghost line walks with me
to pull out the delicate verse.
Everyday a tulip is delivered
in the folds of woodcraft.
Satish Verma, 2 października 2020
In this cruel summer,
body becomes a river-
embroiled in sun.
Gnomes tied to our
bones dragging you down. You clasp the portal
of a feral cat.
Obsession rises.
You kill the petty thoughts
discreetly.
On the edge-
comes the thrifty moon
in night. No holds barred.
In desperation, you
call all the dead stanzas.
Nobody believed in leper's tale.
The black eyes burn
without flames.
Satish Verma, 1 października 2020
In western sky
hundreds of small birds were
flying in an arc,
synchronized in orange.
The grass, holding
the skirts, wants to cascade
in death of the
paramour.
Let the copper-
speak of hurt, in the
thighs of moon.
It will not climb tonight.
Satish Verma, 30 września 2020
Impacted in lunar surface,
the centuries of dust and
dust of centuries, were willing to surrender
orange love,
hovering over your trajectory.
The second death will not
come, flesh consumed.
I will draw your profile
in white desert of psalms.
Life was a big funeral.
Footprints in snow were vanishing.
I have come afar from the
home. I don't want to leave
the traces of my missteps.
Time was very venomous.
The roses will not die, never.
Satish Verma, 29 września 2020
Not a single word
wept, when sky was overcast.
Who wins ultimately?
The cell in the death,
or death in the cell?
I tried,
I tried not to do any wrong.
The centuries suffered.
The pollen in the wind
will not land. Each grain
was a harbinger of a relic.
The purple tears-
for bread and water. Who was
not hungry?
A peacock dance
goes waste-
without rains.
Satish Verma, 28 września 2020
Again I have come back
in the crowd of fakes,
to understand the nature
of dark.
The questions have become
my beacons, I am prodding deep
to stumble on the temper,
ethos of white lies.
You will not take your own
life now. We will stop grieving for
the sunken ferry. Who allowed
the novice, third mate to steer the ship?
Do you know, where the country
was going? The swords had
become a junk shop. Tongues stale,
the language foul.
So we will go for a collective hara-kiri?
Satish Verma, 27 września 2020
The cannibalism was back.
You were eating yourself
alive.
The guts spilt,
would meet the dust,
in abode of earthworms.
They creep and burrow
and bury the organic themes.
Unpolluted, untouched.
The bowels undulate,
to the thumping rhythm,
of greedy feet. White eagles?
How far this digging
of gold mines will go?
Someone had swallowed the glitter.
Black birds are joining
the procession of
empty hearses.
Satish Verma, 25 września 2020
Unresponsive, an
alien ego: I was moving
deep into the soul-search.
The compactness was
snapping. Played against
the hype, the hawks were descending.
Like milkweed I drip,
waiting to be kissed. Copycat
the moon makes a scar. I am hurt.
I wanted to touch you
behind the lens. Closed in,
the lips won't meet. Cobra will
not spread the skin.
The lamb has lost the
innocence. Knife was
a blessing.
Satish Verma, 24 września 2020
There were involuntary
pauses.
When you stretch at the sheets.
Those were scorching
questions, about my identity.
I tell, I don't have any name.
The body was partitioned.
My head belongs
to psalms, which I don't understand.
My torso to the lost
ship which went down
without a torpedo.
My legs were my own
taking me, to places, where
I did not want to go.
Satish Verma, 23 września 2020
Like inky jet,
ejected on white paper,
the cuttlefish
of a poet-
was warding off the
unseen enemy.
The dry flattened
chest, would remind you
of a chalky desert.
Only cacti grow there.
You go into a trance,
then convulsive seizures, with
a loud scream. You
invoke the toddler god
who would kill king cobra
fifteen feet long.
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