الأربعاء، 19 أكتوبر 2022

 

 It fell upon me, like a summer fog

Stealthily, as if a forgotten vengeance, and then

All of the sudden, everywhere, inevitable.

I learned that as one grows older, 

The kind of sorrows they have tend

To take darker shades, spread deeper through their

Body, vines of bane, clawing 

Twisting at their heart

One tires of standing tall

What unbearable pains, those

That spring from within, the ones that you 

Can't relieve, nor you can explain.

One withers like a sunflower : their colors

Fade long before they fall apart.

Sometimes I remember the boy that carried 

A guppy in his stomach, a basin of glass 

Full to the brim with all the things that

He swallowed

Walking about life, unknowing of what he was

Protecting, until all the water have seeped

Through his cracks. 

I am the boy

I am the water

I am the guppy.



Niobe

 

In that cold room, time was frozen still

It was snowing again, footsteps sounded

Like the blossoming of the night stars, weary.

Something must have withered in me :

When i came to, it was morning

And you were gone, only your

Damp voice resounded in the chambers

Of my remembrance, dipped

In infinite jest.

Strange, isn't it? we exist only

In the present tense and things tend to fade away when

We place them behind us.

You are fading in parts; your face is blurred

Your micro-aggressive ways

Your nervous laughter and

Your deliberate act of sucking all the

Air in the room by just 

Breathing. 

What I will remember

Until what seems to be the rest of my life

Is this bitterness my last words to you left 

In my exploited throat -

It's why I'd rather walk away from things that

I cannot change, after you.

Sometimes, on restless nights, as the 

Wind bellows and scratches at 

The window, I reach out to

That cold, cold, insufferable spite

Looming at the bottom of the well.

I still

Haven't forgiven you, as you rest,

Decaying.

On moist nights I revisit that

Cold room to watch you, as I bask in self

Loathing, I spy Medusa as

She struggles to claw her way out of 

Your pipes, and

Try to remember what is it that echoed

In the deepest parts of my conscience on

The way here,

My fingers are going numb

Petals of dead flowers fall on the silent

Snow piled over my thoughts,

Consciousness fades and static bursts

Like a festival of everything forgotten, 

My chaos is soft, for a change, shes says: next time

Try not to swallow your rage

Next time, barf out the poison so 

You wouldn't have to erupt so gloriously

Unravel like a loose sweater when pushed 

To the wall, then spend a life time gathering

The ashes, knitting your sanity back in place, see

Love, you haven't won the argument, the dead just

Can't talk back.

 

السبت، 13 نوفمبر 2021

Aslan

 

The last time I wept

For you, was on a damp

January night, my favorite 

Hair clip shattered on the floor

A grand, contemptuous  

Metaphor for my life.

My life 

So carefully kept together 

Has fallen apart in a second,

And my heart

Fell with a metallic 

Sound, pieces I cannot fix

By perseverance.

I don’t recall for how long 

I have convulsed on my pillow 

Thus, but as I sit recalling at

This moment, my eyes run 

Dry against my tender nature.

I tried to picture mildew 

Resting on a leaf,

Perspiration on the inside

Of a bag of fresh bread 

I’ve watched raindrops racing down 

The window, for inspiration 

Alas, to no use

The well was buried

The night has passed 

Long as it was and

When dawn has powdered

Its blushed cheeks, my 

Sorrow was over.




السبت، 12 ديسمبر 2020

Erobus

07.02.2020

My chaos gets strangely euphoric when
An E string starts to squeak. When she steps on
Dead leaves, she looks like an itch in her brain
Was relieved,
I don't ask many questions.
I just let her weigh me down like
An avid lover, stroke my hair as
I lay to sleep on her lap before she
Leaves at dawn, sometimes I think she's
An apparition.
My chaos gets a Tattoo on 
Her every birthday, parades naked in front of
The mirror like a Fitzgerald poem, her body
Full of scars left by strangers.
She thinks Capricorns are obtuse.
My chaos is unsullied, she hates the color black, says it is 
A glutton
She tries to be kind, never drops 
Her mirth while snearing, sometimes I feel
Like she's a manipulative psychopath, she
Reminds me of Sylvia Plath, her words all over the
Place when she's off, but they burn like poisoned
Needles when they hit home, and
I let a lot of dark innuendos slide because she allows
Me to hide from my troubles in human forms, see, 
I'm scared of these the most.
She is as enticing as the ocean, when she's
Not cross
Her airs are baby blue most of the time, and she suffocates
People by containing
Them, she hums while
She cooks my excuses.
My chaos thinks Dostoyevskian
Characters were based on her exes.
She doesn't like
Crowds, shrinks to the quietest
Corners when someone flicks on
The switch without a warning, she grunts when strangers 
Confess to past sins on the subway.
Wakes me up on restless nights, I hate it
When it's her time to speak and she
Never does.
My chaos smiles when she glances at
Someone else's Chaos
Like a child from the window of a passing
Car. She sat next to yours in grade school, love,
You just don't remember her because she
Was plain and kept to her day dreams, she remembers your
Dirty shoes, the dusty hairs on your neck
Your chaos, mi amor, grew to be a plunge pool
Vortices and doom and weird fishes,
A burying place for the drowning wishes,
Funny how folks curtain their darkness, while
You wear it over your skin, like a rain coat,
As you converse with your spiraling
Thoughts, bastard children of experiences past.
Your chaos stands out like a grave
In the meadow, it's drenched in Vantablack,
Swallowing colors and those born with a soft
Nature
Your chaos is hardened solid by the grimaces of pain
It gets conspicuously annoyed when it rains
It thinks Bukowski's characters were
Its past births, and it can't keep a lover longer than
A season
It thinks my chaos looks horrid without make up.
Follows it around with its eyes,
Your chaos has lewd thoughts, keeps its hands
Secured in its pockets so it wouldn't do harm
Says its shade of black stains worse than the rest.
Your chaos thinks everything is its fault,
Whispers in your ear, sometimes even I can hear,
That you have a habit of destroying people by
Loving them too
Hard. 
Except that you don't, you don't
Love anybody, not even you.
Your chaos bullies you into hiding
Within
It dips your cigarettes in honey and pats
You in the back, when you swallow
The right answer.
Your chaos is a great dancer, but thinks showing off
Is for small egos. It taught you how to trap
Women by listening to what makes them
Go quiet
It pierces my soul
To know that I can't fix you by
Loving you, even she shivers in guilt
That it thought it was the most
Chaotic of all, the wildest summer storm  
That ever brewed
In the west
And yet she nervously whispers in my ears,
 
Child, I wouldn't.






Pooja's Euology



16.02.2020

Empty quarters remind me of my own
Obsequiousness: a mote.
A firefly that got caught
In the ever growing labyrinth of causality,
A clot of matter that
Protects the shadows from the
Flare of the sun : usurper of the night.

There is so much space without,
So much noise within that squirms
To be released
And yet the safest place to hide one's
Blues is one's very skin.
I may be the universe to you,
But to these mountains I am but an echo
Of a forgotten sigh, and you could crumble the
Universe in my palms and it would
Still amount to a little more than
A missed note of a psalm.
Roll my name out of your tongue
Like you used to roll your
Apologies, when you've done wrong,
And pour me another cup of Darjeeling
My darling, as you unfold what
You just crumbled : does it matter if
You love me ?
Does it
Matter if I've loved you back,
In one of these infinite webs of
Possibilities, does it
Matter if we've both perished in each
Other's arms, does it matter if we've never
Met, and this poem never saw the light
Does it matter if we have forgotten
This moment, or we if we've skipped right to
The next ,never knowing what we've
Missed,
Would it make a difference if we've
Been stuck in a Mobius loop and never
Got to know what it's like
To get hurt ?




الخميس، 10 سبتمبر 2020

Izaya

Knowing is a plague.

Quite heavy on the soul
While it's meant to be light, my love, lighter
Than a snowdrop, lighter than the thoughts of
The unborn.

You'd think it a great feat, learning how
To cause tremors as you stomp with
Your feet, ripples as high
As mountains with a touch of your
Promise finger, and it's true, but what you

Don't know is that chaos begets chaos and

A peaceful mind is such
A waste of the gift of suffering,

Time has shrouded yours with enough scar tissue, hasn't it ?
And now you roam the waste lands like a wounded
Beast, looking for someone to love

You

Madder than the last toy you broke while trying

To fix.


Does it heal your
Knuckles when you deliver blow after blow

With the cruel innocence of a child?

Does it please you when you snap the twigs and
Smother the roots, bury the seeds of rancor
Among the weeds you left to run wild ?

Does it soothe your restlessness

When you scrape their last spec of
Dignity off your boots, when their face becomes

Darker than the hidden side of the

Moist star, as you browse your collection of records,


"With what truth shall i hurt you tonight, sweet ?"

You hum, fingers bustling

The kinder the song, the sharper it cuts :
Poetic savagery

Poor things, when did you learn to hurt

People thus ? 

They would
Bolt like the dwellers of the night at the flick
Of a light, because you

Stifle them, by knowing
You make love to
Their flaws and dance upon their
Nakedness, you make their darkness shrivel 

Under the scoff of mockery

You smash their
Heads into the mirror of vigil, you

Push them into the abyss that they walk

Around and never dare look at "

Doesn't it look pretty ?

Do you eye your reflection ?

Doesn't it feel warm ?

Doesn't it smell bottomless?

Doesn't it seem a bit lonely, here, 

Hold your
Breath, and delve


Doesn't it feel like home ?









الجمعة، 5 يونيو 2020

رسالة إلى عزرائيل


‏الموت لا يطرق النوافذ بعد
منتصف الليل كمحب جافل
نوائب الدهر لا تمهل المرء حتى
حلول الخريف
  و رسائل النعي لا تأخذ غفوة في
جيب النذير،
 يصطبح بها الغافل، تفوح منها رائحة
الفصول جميعا
الموت لا يسكن في آثار الحروب و
طيات الجوائح 
قد تلاعب أذنيك بعض
دندنة من ركن قصي
بعد أن تهدأ جلجلة المرح على مائدة العشاء.