He was the last of forty-four.
Educated killers in clean boots.
The best, they said, then broke.
Forty-three went into stone.
Into fluorescent burrows, teeth bared.
They fought until numbers meant nothing.
Then only one kept breathing.
It should have been two survivors.
We flipped a coin, like drunks.
One takes tags, letters, names.
The other stays with the sun.
A fusion bomb, hand-detonated.
I don't know if I won. I'm alive, still, technically speaking. But the room eats silence whole.
Shadow screams behind my ribs.
I turn around, you're there.
Cigarette trembling in cheap ash.
Then I blink; you're gone.
Dreams lie like bar mirrors.
They show you, then sell you.
I searched alleys of sleep.
Your name slipped through my fingers.
When it was time, you vanished.
To prove some brutal splendor.
I never bet on miracles.
I miss you before knowing.
Like hunger, beginning with b.
Lumpers gather, clump, fuse, combine and meld.
Splitters separate, divide and rupture.
The Lumper's huge nuclear fusion bomb
makes bigger bang by fusing hydrogen
than Splitter's uranium fission bomb.
So where do your allegiances lie?
Is it fusion or fission, lump or split?
Do you focus on the differences
or else, put similarities forward
when deciding how to pigeonhole things.
How do you group, class and codify friends?
Overgeneralizing is risky,
it ignores individuality.
But overs-splitting can be dicey too,
with far too much variation to grasp
and hold while you consider your options.
It is more about what's on the labels,
than the size of your hands, nets or boxes.
It was unfolding of the fear.
The blue sky was falling apart
and filthy brats would lift their shriveled arms
to hold it, for time being.
Something for everyone
to stay in emptiness of a palace:
spiritless, voiceless, unhearing
for the sake of human culture,
A robot was ready to plant a kiss
on your lips and you can be bedded
with a humanoid lover.
Take a break for the dirt on your eyes.
Some saboteur will smuggle the blueprint
of a fusion bomb one day
pure on the glass eye
promising a fatherless generation.
SATISH VERMA
It was unfolding of the fear.
The blue sky was falling apart
and filthy brats would lift their shriveled arms
to hold it, for time being.
Something for everyone
to stay in emptiness of a palace:
spiritless, voiceless, unhearing
for the sake of human culture,
A robot was ready to plant a kiss
on your lips and you can be bedded
with a humanoid lover.
Take a break for the dirt on your eyes.
Some saboteur will smuggle the blueprint
of a fusion bomb one day
pure on the glass eye
promising a fatherless generation.
SATISH VERMA
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