30 September, 2011


The myopic tongues 
of tall trees, going downhill 
to find the roots of four-letter words of dead, 
unspoken, but sung in dark. 

They had come out of the skin. 
River was flowing on emotional track, 
with heavy eyelids. Father said, 
he would never die. 

Your unborn children were tasting 
the salt of the road still untaken. The pain 
in the neck was grizzlier, 
when the sun was retreating in virgin hole. 

Moreover, the wrinkles will tell the tale 
of truant hands who would not 
play with the silken adolescence 
of a delirious moon.

Satish Verma

28 September, 2011


For the dream slaves 
the incense has become a moon 
for the alchemic effect of tear’s stain 
in erotic war. 

Ask a mooner, 
will he bring her to bed 
for a song to measure the cantus 
between flight of strings in midnight? 

The small bruises of stars 
were playing under the lemon tree 
in sinking clouds. You must know 
the richness of poverty at night. 

This was the theme to play, 
it was enough to have walked on golden 
leaves of November, while I was collecting 
the false truths of life.

Satish Verma

25 September, 2011


This fake city 

a thundering 
moment; I go down 

coveting a mating 
call from an explosion 

of hallowed 
questions, with no answers. 

Stones were after all 
stones, not gems of knowledge. 

How can you make a 
universal elixir figuratively 

out of garbage of 
human tongues?

Satish Verma

23 September, 2011


A sage plant scrambles for the 
mob, walking out of bed 
and begs for a death. 

The adolescence had become 
graphic. Do you agree with the 
splurge of moonlight under the street light? 

The unborn stink was hovering 
after the shipwreck. The seagulls 
were bewildered. 

There was only one slogan 
for the black booth. 
Priest was sitting cross-legged in a liplock.

Satish Verma

21 September, 2011


So my absentism will prevail 
over presence; 
I will talk to you in space 
between the moments 
of autumn red 
when nothing else was moving. 

In classical pursuit, I straignten 
the equation and we understand 
the complexities of life, and agree to depart 
unlooking at the moon, crossing 
the river of silence, with no blueprints 
on hands. 

The random pain will eat the words 
like a vanGogh painting.

Satish Verma

18 September, 2011


One day I will meet you 
on a dirt track 
and ask about back yard 
where moon lives. 

Will you give me a kiss of the clock? 
I have forgotten the back years. 
Autumn now takes care of my assets 
and I keep on erasing the names. 

O, harvest moon, don’t go away. 
I was playing with the black thoughts 
eating the yellow grass, 
learning the alphabet of white pain. 

It was a crystal midmoon, dark animal, 
who has taken away all the tears.

Satish Verma

16 September, 2011


A futurist virginity in black rose 
was seeking posthumous award 
for immoral kisses of thorns. 

Unaware of lethal thighs 
skipping the lunar landscape 
at night.

Were you going to leap over 
the mountains curling across the glaciers 
of white pain? 

I will extend the shadow 
of infinite truth, 
when we talk about the half-death 
of unborn hunger.

Satish Verma

12 September, 2011


Before the spill there was 
soaring. And then anti-g. 
I readied myself 
for the ultimate fall. 

This was the poetry of submission 
sharing the pain of disillusionment. 
Who was pretending of liberation 
in a see-through heart? 

This was the time when 
you run amok 
under pheromones of dead clones: 
the drowned dreams. 

Pelting stones at moon 
we were made for each other.

Satish Verma

08 September, 2011


Waiting under the opaque moon 
a primeval instinct takes over you 
and you start arriving. 

A black bone 
renders the ash on your forehead 
and you complete the circle – 

reaching childhood; you start 
climbing the ladder, 
for instantaneous release. 

The insects don’t forget the trail; 
you were bleeding from inside. 
You were never alone in a crowd.

Satish Verma

05 September, 2011


Writing on sleeves 
to remember your departure 
and becoming a stray cloud. 

The maternal touch 
of the sky, you can sleep whole life 
on dense logics. 

White sheets were burning 
unannounced in the home. 
I lost the key, to open the door. 

All I wanted to tell you 
about, selling the roses. 
Thorns must not go free. 

The snake was shedding the skin, 
time to hone on whetstone. 
The tender loaf was ready.

Satish Verma

02 September, 2011


Not a single word added today 
to my tinsel book. The brown eyes 
were searching my smile. 

You want to close the happening 
of first moon and the fig. 
My roses start a new dialect, 

waiting on the clouds, almost 
in rains, spreading the wetting 
agent between the eyes. 

The distance was the most crucial 
thing, that does not end; 
endlessly stretching.

Satish Verma