"...Dominus orationem meam suscepit."
Burning his little jelly bottom raw,
He blisters in his liquid greenish poop.
He has no means to summon us at all
To drain the acid swamp of split pea soup.
Except to scream, a peevish infant yawp,
And so he screams, until we take his goop.
We modestly subserve our son's ejecta.
Clean, dry and warm: his everyday trifecta.
He's not alone. I've had my days of burning.
Blistered and raw, to salve my hurt I prayed
for balm from God, ultimately learning
His summit lay on far too steep a grade.
Footless in His scree, inflamed with yearning,
My wounds combusted into wrath. I brayed
My blasphemies, then heard the Logoi fall.
I had no means to summon Him at all.
Which births a trailing thought about the sainted:
Their whispered prayers, their worshipful reclusion,
Which all the hagiographers have painted.
Don't buy it. Souls corroded with confusion,
Their love of God with hatred wholly tainted,
And Doubt the only friend to their seclusion,
With blasphemies they burnt the fetid air.
Profanation is the purest form of prayer.
Collective and permanent-
In these steps to eliminate, I advance.
Concern soley for the initial incision-the swell beneath lefthand placement and pressure.
Natural movements restricted, the right conducts it's glide across taught purpose.
Our eyes widen to mirror the separation of her skin.
Warm nourishment begins to flood, I settle beside and case over the lips,
preventing the taste from draining down my chin.
A plentiful volume of ejecta sets the air.
Collective and permanent- our labors deliver each other entirely from inherent hunger; mine defined by her final cry, dangles above human teeth, instincts screaming against ignorant memory-against these plastic hands which I've soaked heavily.
The creature of all my passion, each and every constant, bears your name as well.
At this, a plentiful volume of ejecta had set the air. A powerful aroma to compliment my dinner.
Did you taste the ejecta
after a sacred ritual of exploding
a makeshift bomb in a crowded market ?
I am worried.
I am becoming death, curling backward.
The wood spirits have started a fire dance.
The healing, yes, it comes from the blood
of steel, they claim, the blackness of a hole
has a purity.
Hunger starts a riot of lewdness in the
ribs of an empire. A skull on the hill
betrays a slaughter of young boys.
The makers of AK-47 were repenting,
for the brutal aura. I have started
telling lies.
Satish Verma
Stealing the ether of abstract visions
my thoughts wander to kiss memories,
resurrected through fractured pains.
Needle breaks the surface, but is
unable to penetrate the chemical perimeter
that shrouds my conscience.
Drifting in rainbow fantasies,
nirvana beckons with painted smiles.
Becalmed beneath echoed sighs,
I trip on fractured moonbeams
and wallow, bleeding angst potential
Cream egg sunset melts into chocolate mountains
as soap bubble trip crashes and burns.
Reality kicks my head in.
Drains my moat of illusions,
exposing ejecta from the real.
Parkinson’s hands grope for salvation,
lying on its pseudo silver bed.
Just one glowing tongue from the candle
to wake the dragon; to prowl my dreams.
Track marks whisper hypnotic seductions
to release my narcotic soul; warping freedom
to fit, snug, as a second skin.
Dripping, piece by piece, into oblivion