My suit of self-loathing no longer fits
The mirror of compassion tells me so
Years of bad-intentions held back growth
After a time, the length of my sleeves bind
I didn’t realize I’ve become over-sized
These angry pants are fit for a small child
How silly I look with cuffs choking wrists
How I’ve loved my painfully straight jacket
Like it or not, the right suit still waits
No one other than I can disrobe loathing
The best cloak is the one from the womb
It takes skill to unstitch a childish blazer
It takes care to unhem pants outgrown
It takes love to go out in my birthday suit
Let tatters of anxiety fall down the chute
Self-loathing keeps me from disrobing
But, I’m not ready to shed my suit yet
The manly scissors that cuts are too heavy
After self-loathing is bare understanding
Forgive the man unstitching childishness
Let go of short-comings without clinging
Take the macho suit off the rack with care
Try on that fitted suit made for just me
Wear it till love fills the over-sized space
Take it all off till nakedness feels nice
Matthew 24:18
"Whoever is in the field must not turn back to get his cloak."
Categories:
unstitching, anger, clothes, fashion, hate,
Form: Free verse
Drunk with pride
the streets are bursting
in self-indulgence.
Who was calling the shots ?
Do you know the words
between intermissions, carry a secret-
till the brazen scoop
finds the hidden meaning.
It was grave
very grave truice, unmaking love
between the estranged lovers-
when clouds were seducing the moon.
You don’t belong to this
crowd of renegades. Ants
will take away the
divorced dreams.
•
Fissile belly
has started showing signs
of reckoning. A gloom has settled,
gyrating in a sunken garden
for the hung corpses.
Never cruel were the times before
when blind needles were unstitching
the lips of frozen faces. I refuse
to start a prayer
till the grass covers a silent tomb.
Last night it had rained
on the private flesh. It was
full of semen. You do not
belong to this world
of pregnant pause.
Satish Verma
Categories:
unstitching, art,
Form: ABC
Do not take a vow of silence.
Death will find its home.
The circus has taken over
the needles.Who will stitch
the wounds of earth. A man
walks into sunset carrying
a bowl of tears. The sit-in
was going to resist a poem
of life. Would you unrobe
your identity in public one day ?
Always I am punctuated at night
by a yellow moon standing
in my window. A nude goddess
is going to mourn the death of a thought.
Satish Verma
Categories:
unstitching, art,
Form: ABC