30 August, 2011


Time capsule in gangrene 
foot. It was madness of the legs. 
There were no sins in the ghetto. Only 
illicit distillation and girls changing 
the beds. 

It stinks when he says he was god. 
What was the ism of the sex 
in the language of violence? Trash, you 
throw the half-eaten apple on the road, 
and sun rises nonchalantly in penthouse. 

Not the full moon tonight. I will filter 
the moonlight in my cup stealing the 
autumn from the lavender, despair 
of the tormenter.

Satish Verma

26 August, 2011


Was worried about the assault 
from inside, 
holding the shoes of his sons, 
he was trailing the sectarian kill. 
Utopia had its own weapons. 

I was trying to understand schizophrenia 
knifing for peace. Do you think mental 
fragmentation would find me on 
the door bell of sleep? I was walking 
through the hard kisses of death – 

on mouth so that I would not speak 
about the valley of tears.

Satish Verma


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.

Satish Verma

22 August, 2011


Like a bikini top 
two hills were rising 
in a spiral optics. Has 

an altruistic vision. 
A wildfire erupts between 
the thongs of dead. 

You have a mobile message 
not to praise the sunrise 
in the woods. 

I am watching the flames 
with a fury 
of a wounded tiger.

Satish Verma

20 August, 2011


Watching the descent 
without god 
in an intelligent design. 

Come have a look at 
our adversary. 
The template offers an open hand. 

The culture of hunger 
in this urbane obscenity 
sitting on the payment making a motif. 

The giant strode into 
the hut to blame the poor 
who would not eat his words.

Satish Verma

14 August, 2011


Again I would hear the night sounds 
through the hours of civilities 
when there was a pause in the body 

You were sleeping with counterfeits, 
running down the golden dome 
sailing over the silken clouds. 
My rough palm was still holding the pen. 

That mirage, that fire on the road 
had cheated us. You had pushed me in an 
aging portrait. Alive, I am looking at you 
from an empty glass.

Satish Verma

10 August, 2011


A study of soul continues; 
hold back the animal, 
discovering yourself in blind light. 

Awaken the hungry child 
of autumn 
and give him the dreams of strawberries 
to eat, time would drink his tears 

sans lips. A second death of the 
pain of separation from the footprints 
of hurricane who bartered the home 
for psalms; 

counting your failures. Take the bowl 
and go to the hills of soaring flames 
and bring back the burning song.

Satish Verma

06 August, 2011


Walking out of the body 
I was drowned, 
accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow. 
A wide circle of testosterone 
giving pardon to a sin 
becomes sexless. 

You were overwhelmed by the missed beats. 
Your prosaic crime of not fathering 
the words becomes a belly dance 
for wrinkled verses. There was no meaning left 
for the artifacts, the national shame. 

The autumn was praying for the 
well-being of pine needles in fog. The repetition 
of the outbursts was cold and I 
was smiling.

Satish Verma

04 August, 2011


It was coming up, the politics 
like dirty sex 
in tall Parthenium grass. 

The panther was hiding on a steppingstone 
watching the hot, field hockey 
played with skulls of peers. 

Mauled, the peach skin was 
entertaining sunlight in 
the metaphoric village. 

Prisoners of false ceilings, 
we sing the anthem with 
the crowd of wolves.

Satish Verma