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.

Satish Verma

INTROSPECTIVE

the pulsating ache of flogging
after internal cave-in, a goldfish gets smeared
with sperm, unclosing, opening a slaughtered canal
for the drooping roses under the black wings

of shame when in our translucency we were
generously distributing arms to legless boys
for transporting the name across the aisle of memories,
the history repeats again in agony

of centuries. The salt inside a name wakes up
a darkness hauled up from eyes of faithfulls
between the sentences and nude angels, a stroke
will empty the womb of earth;

i do not want to know, what will happen to shaking
robots of mercy-homes, drilling the holes in
walls of love? Will the rain come again of red
drizzle on the mountains, the drought had already sucked up

Satish Verma

SMELLS MURDER

a savage desire to severe off
one’s neck, the song will get a name
in troubled mind,
to remove the stain on tongue of black spider,
you will think again to commit your sleep
for that beautiful death:

guess what happens when you come out of the body
like a blue beam and strike a black hole amidst
the shining legies, the lines on your hand
till a different merger when the listening
was unheard and the body does not talk,

wolves were coming; no one minds the bullets,
but sneaking in dark, like paroxysm of sunrealistic
chorus of mutiny or angles fallen from the sky
the acid was thrown on the face, of rosy lips
because they were finding new words.

Satish Verma

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.

Satish Verma

JUST CRIED

Do not want to foresee;
the unknown me. On the tip
of tongue a stunted silence with singularity

sits. Me and my lantern burn
in dark. Thumbs down: the compact
seeking in failed state alters the future generation.

A reverse pain flows out of sunken
eyes. The perpetrator of bloodbath
wants forgiveness from the toddlers.

This side of a shadow, on the other bank,
a rustic river throws up a stabbed body
of a sailor. Another prologue for the sinking ship.

The rats grumble, bite the dead child of
sunlight. The sky bares the candid toys
of velvety jinx, the robots taking over the throne.

Satish Verma

SINGLE DESIGN

Bearded face still looks from
the severed head, in timeless gaze
after the spitting blast. A nimbus cloud
is lobbed on the tormentor to stop burning;

the silver urn contains the daisy sick
to wean away the enemy of tender shoots
of tall trees. Blue mercury is wildly oscillating
like boneless mast of sunken ship.

The avenger of younger cyclones, we lost
our grains in high noon on towring houses;
the rivers changing the course to submerge
the golden bells of masses and white flags

a new born is not lifted from the dust, a time
tries to become bodiless in a glassed dome
touchless, smell less, only skulled myself
in mutilating mud of black tapestry.

Satish Verma

VELVETY RETURN*

Like a dung beetle you were guarding
the tunnel, I will not let the ball roll away,

a grain of ache in my tooth.Why you had
to go, on cathartic release of mutual trust?

A stone in the heart, ice on the wings,
there will be a terrible crash today.

He died by his own hands, failing to reach
the ceiling of solid pain, trekking across

the memories in deep waters. The born depression
had the bride of moon without flesh, beyond the gaze.

A hand holds the sunlight reaching your eyes.
You may swim with fish in mid stream of death.


* On the death of Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath in Alaska on 16th March 09.

Satish Verma

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.

Satish Verma

WRINKLING

Give me not your style today:
the visceral truth, liberated
from painkillers.

Spying singles out the flesh
after the resentment of torture
to do more wrong;

going away in yesterday
puts the life in apocalyptic shade,
the orange condoles for dark

when I lie still on flames
of sandalwood, setting the sun
bleed in blue eyes

of lonely sea. I am again
sleepwalking on salt lake ready
to draw the boundary of reasons,

the second-hand stitch for the eternal wound.

Satish Verma

MIRROR RAVAGED

I was deeply annoyed.
One by one they were falling,
walking in quagmire.

For duplicating rights?
Dead pelicans, pouch empty.
Somebody was picking ants from the air.

Give me some cold pack,
my head is throbbing hot,
I am burning.

Nine year old innocent
raped by a septuagenarian.
A twin pregnancy. I will go insane.

They were still talking about
the golden beach, and perfected will.
Too late to count the gods.

The pale body was untying the mask.
The suffering borrows from the death
and embryo becomes a temple.

Satish Verma

BRAIN-DEAD

reading more between the words, my fractured
dream, identified by its teeth, begins to bite
in pursuit of an unknown fear, the river
becoming red, a paranoid delirium
sets out a scream under the praised
beheading of a jolted lover in the name

of a betrayal, a son goes to court arrest
for mother, in earth hour of unseen grief,
voiceless, vendetta between the pacemakers
of sick hearts, the horrible incest, nicked
and kept in a glass jar to be witnessed by
waxed faces of dying men rinsing the

heart with blood of fallen heroes; the honeymoon
of unborn centuries waiting in vain

Satish Verma

FANGS

Crossing the hate walls,
turning up the severed moon in stunning
landscape, you scatter the rose petals on ice.
One day I will find your frozen footsteps
of self-denial.

Now he has made the lines of stem cells free
for nymphs. Double helix will make the new Barbie dolls.
The cruel thing builds the dredged gravel difficult
to swallow on a price. I don’t have bricks to
make a house of love.

His picture now hangs in the street. The
white smile no longer sails to wrestle with sun.
Stark naked, my luck now grips the black rock
of golden sleep. I will come back with
new moonrise.

Satish Verma

TRINITY

Even the sleeping genes learn
from their crashes with needles in eyes.
A candid house chooses to fade
after thinning of a blessing.
Legacy of a heretic
lives, dragging down the cracked joints
of a frozen mirror. The wild lips kissing
a tiger on mouth in black night of dancing spirits.

The raging bull decides to goad a raped
girl on white daisies of abandoned bed. All
the dead hunters start cheating the bandages
of a wheelchair, the trembling asteroids
start dispersing in cryptic dark. The world
ends with a kill, mourners lay wreaths and hand
out the cyanide capsules for future onslaughts
on the waking eyes.

Satish Verma

THE URBORN

Let it be, a dawn prayer,
dripping with fantasy
intercepting the strip-search of soul
tempting a mad psyche.

The sleeping volcano was going to celebrate,
put the sign on.
Perfectly shineless hands will raise
the banner to donate kidneys, eyes and heart

to the broken star, who on the name of book
was sending the empty cadaver on ivory car,
a saviour from carnage, to mimic
a divine touch.

Why are they playing with flames of summer?
Poor minutes were sinned, the centuries
will suffer now. On the green leaves
a nightingale lies bleeding!

Satish Verma

VELVETY RETURN

Like a dung beetle you were guarding
the tunnel, I will not let the ball roll away,

a grain of ache in my tooth.Why you had
to go, on cathartic release of mutual trust?

A stone in the heart, ice on the wings,
there will be a terrible crash today.

He died by his own hands, failing to reach
the ceiling of solid pain, trekking across

the memories in deep waters. The born depression
had the bride of moon without flesh, beyond the gaze.

A hand holds the sunlight reaching your eyes.
You may swim with fish in mid stream of death.

Satish Verma

ROCKS AND SKULLS

It was like spidural
dry crumbs of silence descending,
a still born sun popped out
through a raw hoematoma:

mountain was guilty of something,
it changed its mood and started
talking to clouds until the sky
turned crimson. The fountains had

a question for the bald owls, who under
the lidless eyes, always carried a massage
of colossal waste after the unholy
dinner. I know your glory was beckoning

to unflesh the bones in mass grave
of winged seeds who died in unsewn
pods of violence. I have still not come to
terms with the neck high milkless gaze.

Satish Verma

BALD AND PAINFUL*

in emptiness staying aloof
to set the wings free,
a shadow self without flesh and bones
to rip out the enormity of silence

of words, cold in the face of duality
metaphysical but of somber echo of tension
between reconciliation and deep anger
causing a long flight of fantasy

of grains sprouting after self-denial at
the turf of remembering deep, it would be
a comeback for the pelting rain on the swan -
song of a sizzling desert,

the omnivorus sanity of claws in the golden
fabric of blood caked body of a star

* On the death of Jade Goody

Satish Verma

LEAVES

Under lip’s shadow
dislocated in faint moonlight
we discussed the maligned communications

between fuming monologues
of desiccsatd life. Sorcery was not able to
knife the secrets of the park, branches

and trees of memory. The game continues
in jungle of lies, blessed by lines of murder:
a divided loyality to have the last laugh.

The nose-dive for inheritance inside the flesh
lays the bones bleached white to dye
them again in pink morale:

I reach where I never intended to travel.
There is no death to mourn now. Each maggot
was ready to enter the spine of image.

Satish Verma

TIME TO ANSWER *

This wake, I owed it to you, my defining moment:
for the raw melding, of life imprisonement
and death behind the bars. The sin had

seeped slowly in the foundations. A blurred view
of the caravan passing on the shifting sand
of quarter-century; the devastation had turned

black in smug oasis, the victim will not
become virgin again. Blind dead will monitor
the course of grievers. On to her tongue

I leave the endless stars and you will forget
the bull-dosed windows and weeping walls
of incaracerated house where the daily meals

were sex and rape; the strange shadows
of crime and pardon are breaking now
in blue sky after the defeating moon.



• After hearing the verdict on Josef Fritzl on 19th March 09

Satish Verma

GOING NOWHERE

On the blue icicles
you were colliding with orbiting electrons

naked legs on rocking chair
were expecting the visual words to spook

for clairvoyance with the sun decline beyong borders

my eyes are damp, I know the bottom
was echoing after the shipwreck nevertheless,
archives were swimming in muddy water.

Can you defeat the throb of pain?

The fake drunkenness of bailouts, it was
still not happening – the whiteness of dawn, only
gray clouds over the peaks, speckled with

orange blooms, the shadows of red blood,
a million despairs of avenging marriages
of voices in dark sea.

Satish Verma

ONCE UPON

Robbing the silence of heights
to undo the whole sky, you lean on
an enigma to become reverential,

elevated by an absurd system;
I was still pursuing fidelity
in the rubble of meaningless life;

not faith, but certain urge to follow
the doorway to unknown, something to be done
for the hungry child’s scream,

the truth that was not there, nor with the
inclined gods of tomorrow. Then where
shall we meet in the grazing bones

of new born human culture?
The instant music of death wish lingers on a moon
and then flies away in a kiss.

Satish Verma

MOURNING THE DELUGE

Something was not polite in signs.
The smell of incarcerated bed of gods
was floating down.

A subdued shadow of black moon
was climbing on the window. And each
house had offered a son, to rage

a war of retribution. Malice towards
one and everybody, they were ready to cut the
hands who were holding the book.

Out of the ore comes out the gold, when
you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the
veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones.

The mud on the face, a gift of birthday.

Satish Verma

BETWEEN HUNGER AND ESCAPE

Something was not polite in signs.
The smell of incarcerated bed of gods
was floating down.

A subdued shadow of black moon
was climbing on the window. And each
house had offered a son, to rage

a war of retribution. Malice towards
one and everybody, they were ready to cut the
hands who were holding the book.

Out of the ore comes out the gold, when
you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the
veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones.

The mud on the face, a gift of birthday.

Satish Verma

LITTLE TRUTHS

Deluge of criminality in the moral night;
sun was taking a plunge on the falls,
in the name of cobbled up front, for our
rise and fall in the primary casuality.

Sacred contusion, on the floor of mausoleum,
when you smell like a forgotton god, and
lie in the generosity of asylum under the downy mildew.
You cannot cry in the armless death.

History begins with starvation and murders
of innocents between the blasts. Spiders were fattening
on walls eating untangled, discarded syllables.
Punishment of defeat makes you a sex slave.

The ash smeared body must lie on doormat.

Satish Verma

HOISTING

A fledged reincarnation starts a carnage
before the scared skull, ribs were missing
from the pink wraps. Eye over eye opens a split

vision, to live in a shirtless thoughts, to kill
where the truth was. An accidental lover hovers over
the green breasts, full of secret grief.

All the birds on the lake have surrendered
the sun’s light to extinguished nests and flown away.
The pain of yesterday now, will haunt the bride

of moon who had to abandon the baby in mud
to be watched by wolves of garlanded priests.
The tear was me, subway was me.

The skin was changing colour, camouflaged for
shame and guilt, pleading a glimpse of fire.

Satish Verma

IMAGES

Bending the fluid anger, it was coming: from
anthills to natural selection, the sexual drive of a violenne;

invasive, brutal, the testosterone chasing wet thighs,
the night sweats. Kleptomania rising; castration

or helium filled masks for assisting suicides were
mutilating genes. Multiasking for eugenics? Hate and revenge

hangs a body on the turret of a tank, a wrong
for wrong. A little crown, winged pollens scattered

on brittle areola, the milky way shying away from midnight
sun. The toppled vision in blindness of a tribe

unearths the skeletons of mass murders; the
fanatics changing the face value of truths.

Images do not leave the temples.

Satish Verma

INVERTED

A tribal instinct stops the nemesis:
Spraying the blood-soaked, small
foot prints on my chest;
unlocking, I accept
myself.

Why contained anger
of awesome ache over the periphery?
Through the atrophied, black limbs -
an elite infusion of trespassing knowledge?
The green adolescence was waiting in chains.

The hoarseness as from a cyanosed throat
after the sips of hemlock, the brave ascending
of a gaint stroke on the cheeks of death;
the dust will sing a farewell
to a river of tears!

End was not me on the chainsaw
a chamomile will wipe the blemishes of the Grail.

Satish Verma

EMPTYING

perversity behind the orbs tilts,
scatters the fragile cohesion, a spectre
looms on the wrinkled face of an old tree,

the bee-eaters have flown away;
annual rings on wooden panels were defying the age
of smile on the mouth of bright doors

petitioning to the naked beams of body;
infusion of totality for antimutagens
of nude spiders weaving a lethal design:

the tender fall of deathless night on
forgetfull; I am ready to reach the bottom
of fear, bring out the poison for celebration,

unveiling the apes of tomorrow on the
black prints of dragonflies stumbling out
from golden words

Satish Verma

FRUGALITY

wanted to send a call to me
sitting in a flowing traffic of life, a sinister,
sadistic happiness to see the disasters

coming home, in triangle of death,
for visitation of a nihilistic visual, the wedding
of taxidermal violence, at scope of frugal

clay, moulding the age of anxiety
because there were enough girls to be raped
and hunger was disconnecting the tribes

in camps, the bunkers were safe haven
for daunting, unremembered prodigal sons;
the vultures were dying daily,

you were outcast, a sleepwalker in dark,
confronting the boundaries of labiate palms

Satish Verma

DEWDROP

absence of a melody
was wrenching
on the face of a song

surface tension –
a venom creeps
surging in twin black eyes

you raise your price
in extremes
unburdening of embryonic waste

outsider
matches his death
with antiquity

Satish Verma

BLIND SWINGS

gradients
vivid, humbling
I was collecting a bit of myself

reading anatomy
of animality
spawning the hidden eggs

flecks of echos scarring:
reconnecting to starry night
I could not hold my enrged otherself

and the homely smell of gunshots
orchestrated to send a message of
mayhem – for optic illusion

the reptiles have broken
the law for an oceanic boat
collecting the golden fish

on the burning ghats, streetscape
full of falling leaves and
bloody wings of black crows

Satish Verma