I need Any need to stitch an acid, bare designed, in endoplasm, when moon was walking like a full-breasted bride? The synthetic feat was neat and clinical, yet I want to turn back and talk about something which heals the spirit of winged sorrow.
Marrow implant blooms like pink dough. Can you walk straight, think clean? Organs for sale; mannequins are real flesh, bones, heart. Roasted incense of sick birds floats – you become a possessed iris.
Can you do something? My limbs are aching, terrific pain. Want to run like a stricken buck, go for fasting like a schizophrenic, become a letter undelivered and message written off!
What is the truth then? I cannot afford to accept the defeat!
Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts. You are taken aback. This is magic, profoundly soulful. In a lone, long journey Satish Verma is still discovering himself. Beaten, betrayed, felled, he comes back with fierce velocity. His childhood was traumatized by India’s partition. Terror, violence and death were witnessed which built the morals of poet. Becoming defiantly recluse Satish Verma pursued his value based life on the path of truth. Teaching Botany for 35 years he was writing poetry, privately and solemnly and published twelve collections. Worked silently with social causes. His scions, doctors and engineers are living in USA. He chose to live back in his beloved country and resides in Ajmer (INDIA) with his spouse Kanta running the Charitable Holistic Institute of SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION. He can also be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Outraged film and dirt life. The descent was complete. A shadow under the moon walks past the lake, comes out of the body. Every dream leaves an imprint on the glass. Will never drink the moonlight again. The blank surrender
Wynken Blynken and Nod??? (ah…oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee barked up the wrong tree – reed don my mongrel friend) This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag to take digs on front page headline grabbing news, nonetheless
After a long time, I heard them again: peacocks. Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees; poised to open sexuality. Ah, the purple lips of a downing cloud sets the sky on a chase for a lost love of the
There was a soul-searching after a negative assassination tearing my past, my future. Beneath the burden lies the mountain of bail-outs. You don’t feel whole in shadows of countings. The borders were breached for lavish darkness alive under the full
Don’t cry for me… I’ve met my destiny And found solace in the soil that covers me. Look beyond my grave Gather the stones, guns, bullets and grenades Build them into wheels For windmills, bicycles and trains. Look into children’s