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Satish Verma

Pulsating

In the cavernous mind
a thought becomes
redundant.
You go straight for a snakeroot.

A flat cluster of white flowers
spurs a stigma
at the white moon
for floating rumors.

This was my native pain
of brilliant tapestry.
The threads had a weaver’s knot
of rare beliefs.

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In Selfish Vein

What was the idea of charity,
when you were hiding
yourself from you?


Was it a non-existence?
Or you were writing an
unseen anthology?

Was that your kin choice
for a reciprocal pain,
inflicted in dark?

Between right and wrong
I am laying my wreath
on my grave.

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A Very Hurt Poem

Last night
moon was following me
discreetly,
skirting behind the trees.

A white splendor
drips,
like a dropped coin
on poor’s hand.

Did you see the blood
on roses?
The petals were wounded
in rain.

Casual violence
spreads in the streets.
I write a very hurt
poem.

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Contrasting

It did not stay in bed for long
the ultimate.
Clouds climbed down from immortality.

The sick motherhood.

We made love
listening to winds
draping our ashes.

A father waited at the door.

I am the sun
I am the moon
interpenetrating in you.

In concept of two enemies.

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Mortal Blues

That satanic streak
of tireless undressing
of a hapless monarch.

Wings were gone. Cannot fly
across the tree
of hypocricy.

A footmat for the suicidal jump
from the elegant hierarchy
to grainy lies.

Why are you turning ungreen?
You will dig up the temple
without god?

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Pink Reminder

It slithers, the tongue
trying to find
the rage on cold words.

A window
shuts on fire for a deliberate
withdrawl from conflicts.

The virgin iron
becomes a corpse
under the golden
amnesia of hot greens.

The colors are changing
on face
and the silky grass of paradise.

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Pure Murder

The spill of sheen
after deep throat explosion.

Not as special
as the day appeared.


Afraid of complete annihilation?
Was it possible?

Untenable?
Living in a cavern full of bats?

A key slept in a lock
unmoving the golden doors.

Beyond the control,
lies disaster.

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Road War

Hoisting the bisexuality
on a figurine,
I crawl back to anxiety.

The primitive instinct
was taking over the stitches
on a snake.

What do you want from
a moon for the drooling
mouth of a seashell?

Braiding the breasts
against gravity,
earth wants to defy the duality.

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Next Night

I hate the self-immolation
of orange sex.
Weather was leaving
blue strings on the skin.

Redemption was incomplete
by sharing the legs
Lips will not knead
the ears.

Like wakng in darkness
for a passage to grief.
Black moon will step aside
for a flame at the end of tunnel.

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Birth Of A Poem

In the sea of flesh:
pomegranates.
I will not say
what I mean.

In nameless pit
of hollow breast,
a parting kiss
of poetry.

I will count my steps
tonight.
walking on tectonic plates
before the quake hits.

It was the green blood
of craft.
A bloodless surgery
on heart.

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