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Satish Verma Bending the fluid anger, it was coming: from
anthills to natural selection, the sexual drive of a violenne;
invasive, brutal, the testosterone chasing wet thighs,
the night sweats. Kleptomania rising; castration
or helium filled masks for assisting suicides were
mutilating genes. Multiasking for eugenics? Hate and revenge
hangs a body on the turret of a tank, a wrong
for wrong. A little crown, winged pollens scattered
on brittle areola, the milky way shying away from midnight
sun. The toppled vision in blindness of a tribe
unearths the skeletons of mass murders; the
fanatics changing the face value of truths.
Images do not leave the temples.
