Satish Verma, 16 october 2019
He was slated to become
godless, without engaging―
the nature.
The violence continues
in every joint, after an ego clash
in fractured body.
A blood carnival, between
divine and the beast, paying
the debt of earth.
The decadence. Let it be.
Becoming beautiful
in great decline.
The dice has been thrown.
A chance to meet―
the death after the duel.
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Satish Verma, 15 october 2019
Like walking on coal dump
coming of age.
Magnifying the blackness
of a miner's hands.
Excavating a long burrow
to feed the pain.
A muffled cry and you
locate a bound sea.
A clear moon was rising
as a witness to this atrocity.
A classic dance of an
angry god to show the presence.
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Satish Verma, 14 october 2019
A quest for negativity
after becoming apolitical.
The moon was marginalized,
when you lighted your―
earthen lamp under the
holy basil.
At night the demons
begin the assaults to
make the milk dirty.
The bluebird descends
in the dream to pick up
the elders for a wreath.
I am not going to cross
the river in flames.
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Renato N. Mascardo, 13 october 2019
muscae volitantes
floating
pieces of my
memories just beyond
the pale of the eyesight of my
dim mind
in the
morass of my
past the flotsam of what
I thought I knew flit by out of
my reach
still in
blind hope I wait
unwittingly for thoughts
long gone for wit long lost to me
I wait//
renato
13 october 2019
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Satish Verma, 13 october 2019
Ash and smoke.
I am fever, not becoming
any sound.
Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza
on damp soil,
unfound by light.
Thriving in airless
dark. Will not see the cool―
moon of summer night.
There was no key
to find the invisible.
A random poem will see.
Your painted body
in blue scars, still
remembers the fallen roof.
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Satish Verma, 12 october 2019
The fresco had started
peeling off. I was―
searching for my ancestors.
The walls had the secrets
buried deep in the bricks―
when they were baked.
Few abandoned poems,
some fakes and counterfeits
and many masks.
A dynasty speaks of
the grieving world without any―
remorse. I do not arrive.
A birthday present for the new
generation, a bronzed
face with glazed eyes looking beyond gravity.
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Satish Verma, 11 october 2019
The bifurcation―
was complete.
A fire baby―
and a weird ritual.
Criticality was redundant,
once I knew your gender.
Reeking of timelessness
in zero hour.
You fly the balloons―
from the ruins.
I scraifice a tree
for you, with
a shrill cry―
falling mid-flight.
White moon had
become very harsh.
I will bring honey
for night.
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Satish Verma, 9 october 2019
Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me
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Satish Verma, 8 october 2019
The tibial spiking
now hurts.
The floaters on the dried bed―
of bones, speak volumes
of sand in eyes.
Pawns have disappeared.
The earth is wounded.
A snake climbs onto the pink lips
to know its crime.
The matter interacts wrongly
with radiation. Spectroscopy
fails up to the hilt.
On the spur of the moment
I ignite the shadow
of the space between us.
The miser starts counting the coins.
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Satish Verma, 7 october 2019
There was an urgency―
to finish the job,
beheading the tulips.
Wolves were coming.
The surveillance had failed.
Nothing but clouds between
the titles.
Writing was illegible.
It was the last offensive
of blankness.
Before the dawn.
You have to draw a crescent
moon on my forehead.
I am going to scream.
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