Just Beauty

Today I want to take a lethal dose
of black lips, confronting the killer on
contract. Time dithers to escort. May be
a cold-blooded murder of a handful of
sick shadows will give a transparent
memory.

Planting a sad kiss on blameless
insomniac, I rub the sweet tenderness
of morning blossom, a work of a faithful
artist, an unnoticed grief (for the sake
of old promise) . Meanwhile the blue moon
splits into thousand splinters.

From the height of insanity flows
the chaste river of history. I defy the
laws of gravity and climb with death
all the time, becoming dark to myself,
finding the shape of light in
beauty of death.

poem by Satish Verma
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Collective Guilt

profiling the divine phallus
on terraced shrouds of fault the dilemma
of arcane notation starts for that
succultent rumours, emotively torn asunder,

a green room becomes epiphanic,
the voice was gone with black sun;
buried onto neck in the drenched earth
the age old sins will be purified

today i meet you for a refusal to place
wreaths for soft death unceremoniously in
the lethal dose for assisted end of life;
a flame hangs like a pendant on the wall,

deflowered chaste tree, stretched unchilled
in deep wounds: it turns to my inner
eye, the voyage to anonymity of incomplete
cries of a broken dream, tody sleep not

poem by Satish Verma
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Against Deportation

Ahead of pain, we did not cry;
intimating of dreams, crowded;
stranded on issues, reaching nowhere.

Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon
in half-sleep. You can open the door
without sound. The snake writhes under your feet.

A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green
urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns
the darkness for any possibility of light.

The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled
fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely
cosmos; goldilocks starts howling.

Terror strikes again in offering, so far
about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat
sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end.

poem by Satish Verma
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Carbon Choking

Uninhibited violence. The disappearing
she-factor in stem cells at sunset point,
which could not collect the evidence.How
the tomb-sweeping stopped and
candles blown out? This time
the thorns were bleeding, flesh was again
gone out of sight, and the dark silence
ejected from teeth, was mugged by words. Your
kiss arrives in vain, the night was without
a moon. Asleep, a seed sprouts howling
at the crossroads ready to invite the bottom
of abyss at the child’s rape. Come and
see the birthmark on forehead, the map
of his country reddening and oozing.
I am on the run now to graft the
skin on unhealing wounds, unanswerable.

poem by Satish Verma
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Chronic Wait

When a full moon was taking a bath
by the serene lake, you moved about in
abandoned identity, your sides flaring up.

A slate gray nubion cloud was tossed
around by a tall tree. Hotstepping you despaired
to prevent a stillbirth of a genre

in genocide of anonymous flora viberating
in cyberscape of ominus sentences. The
exhibitionist was taking over the podium. Petit mal

brings the heels down of worshippers anointing
a pair of sandals. Someone goes a non-linear
fashion, denies the holocaust and howling.

Hospice was needed for non-believers in any
case. A continuum of exurbs intercedes in the
slaughter of bovine names.

poem by Satish Verma
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Words

Was it sacrilege to reenter the bones of knuckles
thinking of your primrose, a backlash of twigs
in garden of homeless birds, a high-profile
sweep starting a mad rush of blue winds
in the confused landscape of life?

my hills are strewn with bones of eaten, half-cooked
lines of defence, the diplomacy not working to mimic
peace; dead words grip my truths; must you
kill the surgeon who has severed the wrist
of a thief.

I am falling unbidden on Pole Star, the terror
on the wings of flying swans, a child sits
on a chair with enormous head shaking involuntarily
and the cyclone breaking on the dumb noddings
of failing light.

poem by Satish Verma
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The Silent Colours

A mad resurgence of fake locks
paralyzes the arched doors of the hidden
walls, where the roses squirm under
the false kisses of a red moon;

they came again to police the blinds.
The mother digs up the charred body of
her son without singing the praise of
drifting star, till the scars become green.

It was the name of ivory grief, you never
know, when the blue milk turns malignant.
A hairy loss of heritage from the golden
heights of slumber. My constant truth

weeps without shame. This landscape
does not belong to ashes of broken history
of man. The delirium of war on laments
has wiped away the holding lights on shores.

poem by Satish Verma
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Battle For Madness

I see it coming
the end before the beginning.
Of dawn.
The midnight call.

Impeachment was fragile.
A satanic cult
overwhelms the freedom
of negation.

Do yoy think we can
move the tree of wisdom
from the altar of ethics
sending shots to the sky.

From the grief of paradoxes
Can you run away? One
moment you exhibit the caked blood.
Next moment it is dark.

[...] Read more

poem by Satish Verma
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Of Gods And Virgins

Treading on burning cinders
it was a saga of fear versus unknown.
Stripped, before drooping eyes
scarred, armless, unflying.

Into the regeneration phase:
not a single word, single concern
of yourself, you walked to arrive
without adding a question.

There was a movement without ripples,
death of the black, mottled, many.
I, becoming transcendental scion
of whole, sincere entity.

Melting to start a romance
in the house of petals,
of fragrant pheromones
deluging the phoenix.

[...] Read more

poem by Satish Verma
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I Am Smile With Tears

He felt very guilty
while defending himself. Being nothing
in the times, he became so dangerous
for himself that the buttons were lost for
patriarchal connectedness.
The faces had become the permanent masks.

Now what?
Flutes lie broken in bottom of the pond,
stones had committed suicide.
A window lets in darkness.
I love the pace of history walking on the back
of alligators. It does not die.

I am emptying the urn, again and again
to write poems on the flyleaves of life.
Pure pain. I am smile with tears. My
knees carrying the amputated leg. A big
throw on the trash. I am thirsty,
not hungry. My hands reach for a strip.

poem by Satish Verma
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