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Sat 13 Dec, 2008 05:58 pm
Words are dust to the child whose bare feet have trampled in the blood of her father. She did and lives. We are the dead.
A mindmap
(to N.)
Exploring by free association
Involving both mind and heart
I find myself in her, a distant mirror.
Suffering has cleansed her soul.
She knows all shades of crying
The cold smile of despair
The merciless side of love
The wisdom of each passion,
A princess to the bone. Bow! Bow!
Rage oh rage against idolisation!
She has a bad cold and bleeds,
A mermaid thrown on the beach
Unable to stand on her tail.
Her words are lost in translation
Her gestures are damaged and slow
Her womb is unfit for conception
And her fingers are cigarette stained.
Magic, significance, fascination,
Melancholy of this encounter.
Autumn has a musty smell here
And the evenings are thick with rain.
Her eyes hold a land of promise
With hills sleeping softer in spring
Where trees stand taller than legend
And transistors play Solomon's Song.
To talk, to laugh? Perchance to eat couscous?
Where is the rub? The sun stands soft and low.
War eats everything. Boom! Dead! Knock-out!
Screaming ambulances! Tears on tears!
Dead children seem more dead than adults
While once they had more life in them.
I must go there and eat couscous
Where she sits at my table, forever far.
The Necronomicon is written in Syriac
The Arabian Nights in ignorance
A mindmap tastes like Beaujolais
Flat and sharp. Yet there's a novel in it
In which I'm a character to discard.
"Habibi" sounds better than "love"
Said with the voice of an operator
Handling a long-distance call.
Habibi Nouri'eh,
Habibi
Habibi
Habibi
@nameless,
What is mine?
Btw seems not so good in the light of day. Lofty intentions don't make the best poems. Oh well...
-The day consoles us for what the night reveals.
-I am many, and we are all alone.
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