Wounded Pride

by Satish Verma

Generation grips,
I am the street
in dysphoria.

You run, shout, the arc
bleeds, you become your enemy
that kills the alphabets

A statue was hung
upside down
to eject the violence from plastic lips.

Blood stained sidewalk
throws a challenge to send
the skins of martys.

The taste of endometrium confronts
a fortune of calories in pink
for an unconscious hood.

And the language of golden teeth
hides the backdoor flight
of a fallen god.

01-Feb-2011

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