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- Page 4

CLAUSES

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Children of stink, cannot smell the rose.
Lithium in their blood
fathers were happy.

Power over the fire of groins,
was a music to ears.
Everything else was secondary.

The wishes squealed
on the mattresses.
Grief was served in the bed.

Big tears flowing
on the cheeks of ice.
Antarctica was crying.

Sexed up vendetta
did not kill a fly.
Bee was hovering over the heads.

I will expand till infinity.
Life will take care
of ferocious clauses.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

EXPERIMENTS

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Poaching on the brooding landscape
you crashed while scaling the flame.
A togetherness became a half-truth.
How troubled
I had been for basics.

Then shifting loyalties for petty things
you were holding up my soul,
and I did not move with the changing times.
For the rivers
to walk with green trees.

If the words had the answers
to rebel against the eternal guilt,
to beat the death with pain.
Fighting
for the faded truths.

My experiments with lies will continue!

Submitted by Satish Verma.

MAGESTIC INNOCENCE

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How far? How far the goodness will survive?
Born to suffer, a troubled mind
was punished, for melting down.
Livid with revenge sun bleaches
the man made God, a personal anger.
Executioner was on the street
lighting bonfires of your principles.

A silent hope revolts, like green fire,
evergreen, possessing the pride spurts
of hot flames, as the age grows,
the grieving will stop, and when the borders sleep,
it will rise on the horizon, a new moon on
a majestic innocence
of pure hills in sky!

Submitted by Satish Verma.

FABRIC

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Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for
numericals, refusing to expand,
walk with father of sorrow
the revolutionary.

He wanted to talk as an equal
in interpretation of truth about death
and God, the new incumbent
of faith.

An aptness to spill the blood on
your face, of some recent slaughter,
as a witness of dying for peace,
as soothing law of nature.

He wears the fabric of inspiration:
the city and streets are empty
weaving the welts of pain,
for nothing.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

EXPLOSION

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Spitting the blood, he said,
every winter for few days –
he would feel outcast and there was
pain in the idea of pain, but he wanted to live
without a painkiller.

Sometimes he will singe his hands on a flame
to protect his dignity. The history of his
unrest remaining untold. Then he will go
out in rains of knowledge and soak himself
in mixed joy.

A lump in the throat hurts, when he
tries to decipher a dream to measure
the life. A liar knows the complete death
of a truth to assert his independent existence
in myth.

A deadly poison of the choosing,
your own microclimate, aggrandizement
of royal tradition, makes you popular in masses.
They surge to touch your gown, ripping
the explosion.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

LAST FLOWERS

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A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.

To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.

The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.

The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing
will happen to the vase. I
am plucking the last flowers.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

FOETICIDE

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Ends did not meet, like beginnings,
fact was insulted by fiction:
the newborn stuns the God.
Drop by drop
life drips from ankles.

Desolation takes advantage,
forgets the path, becomes self-centered.
Dialect changes, to taste the foul
heritage,
cadaver breaks the glass jar.

Foeticide of a flute, overnight
the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon
floats like an empty boat.
Waves burn
for the sake of swollen lids of time.

The essence of lies weaves a theme
a skull rolls down on a slide
laughing like sin of omissions.
Night screams.
A hot sun glows from the window.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

BON VOYAGE

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Absolute yes or no
makes you wish
not to understand philosophy
of semipermeable life.

Sort of, lies pass through,
truth is left behind.
The fingerprints don’t speak
the identity of runaway minutes.

Somewhere you fail miserably,
break the cushions
and lie on thorns
to feel the terror of time.

Where the birds have gone?
Trees have startled the sky.
The staircase is broken.
Bon voyage to blue eyes.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

BON VOYAGE

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Absolute yes or no
makes you wish
not to understand philosophy
of semipermeable life.

Sort of, lies pass through,
truth is left behind.
The fingerprints don’t speak
the identity of runaway minutes.

Somewhere you fail miserably,
break the cushions
and lie on thorns
to feel the terror of time.

Where the birds have gone?
Trees have startled the sky.
The staircase is broken.
Bon voyage to blue eyes.

Submitted by Satish Verma.

CIRCLE OF GLORY

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Pain unites the victims.
Discreetly, afterword, was the same.
Only loser helped you to die instantly
for the millions of stars.

The shadow was a terrorist
on the terrace.
Wounds were flying on erected dais,
the circle of glory was complete.

Over the dead nurseries
sun was kneading the earth,
for a graying sky
to bear the night.

A shameful retreat
of the weaver, of faked skin,
when body was stained with orange bruises
inviting the moon.

Submitted by Satish Verma.