Against Tattoos

Satish Verma

Don't print on the body 
a pattern, grayesh red. 
Damask rose? 
The cilia will propel you 
into the tunnel. 

Clowns have assembled 
on the street, to write 
the history of fall. 
Acts of kindness are being 
translated into profanities. 

You are hurt by the 
petals, thrown at you. 
Kingmaker, why you have become 
a joker? 

Red lilies? 
Do you like the buttercups? 
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet. 
I am not sure, why you were walking 
on nails.