حسان و روما

يأتي إلي

بوردة حمراء

مملة

خلف أصابعه النحيلة

ويقول لي,بتلعثم

كم ابدو جميلة

أبتسم, بأدب

في عقلي المحتبس

الذي يقتبس

أشعار

الكبار.

أتخيل معطفي

الأزرق

في احياء روما

الذي تفرز

هوء القهوة

حسان يسألني

عن حالي

لا أبالي

كيف لي؟

إنه فتى 

تافه

صغير

بأفكار

مجهريه

ثاناوية

يعطني ورقة حمراء

وبكل

دهاء

 : يتوقع

أن أنسى

عن شوارع

روما  

Turky.

Across closely put contenents, i visited the wounder of orginized turkish lights.
I visted history, i visited roman battle sights and roman shrined and a pinch of onflwing roman mythology. But there was a part of me, that could almost smell, the stail cent of extravagent misery.
I visited the asian side, my history. My teratory, my ansestors unleashed ,in quivery.
I stand upon yhe well decorated streets of turky, there is something about this country, that crawls up to me, infesting my holes of loss, my holes of unsymitry, it's litiriture,it's far too bitter coffe, it's faintly lit cities, allowing a crak of a room for privicy.
It's almost everywhere sence of poetry.
I have a girl who's been unfaithful to me, her mother snatched away her sence of fadility. I could always see a slip of an orang strand out of her velvet hanckerchif, covering her relitavly small head, her hair, once sneaking out, almost aleays seems as if it were sit on a great heap of fire.

I am Africa.

when you'r an unbelievably
over-cryer
I hold you`r hand.
and I whisper the right words.
and all is a bit bitter.
I am always bitter
but I laugh endlessly.
and externally, it would appear
we`r having a blast
I am hurt
I am pain
I am Africa
at it`s highest state of shame.
and you, the world
mindlessly look away
I am privet, and silent
I am centuries of decay.
I am the ache of greatness
I am the greatness of ache.
and in you`r imbecilic mind
you`r Cleopatra-like eyes
 I am a bit short of ordinary.
you.
my dear,
to me,
are world hunger
manic depression
repeated rape
and fucking dictatorship
natural disaster
time going faster
writers block
art, unmasterd
and death of dreams
death of liberation.
but I cant help
my absolute idiocy
around you`r
devastating
deceptive
tragic
beauty
to which
I am helplessly ugly.

scatter.

the vibrantly pitch

night sky

invades the land

as if a van gogh painting

the king, 

the torn father

.in his best clothing,

 in his worst face

in his hay stack

berd nest

beard

 as if being prepared,

 as if being doomed to a funiral.

 as if barying his golden locked daughter

one more time every year,

 on the date of her birth,

he releases the magnificently

florescent

lantern.

the first.

a first touch of gentle light

a gentle guide

a gentle plea

into the roaming terrors of an infinite

night sky

and then a thousand more.

 the hollow wombed mother,

 the queen

 grabs hold of her husbands shoulders

 and figidly whispers to him,

 she will be back to us,

 these lanterns have flown the day she was born,

  will fly when she returns

 and rest. the day she dies.

like this lantern,

our stranded,  radiant

golden haired daughter.

victor.

we gather, the young lonesome revolutionaries, and our thrust upon king asks for our heads. he calls us traitors, barbaric rebels of filthy nights.
but we know, we worship the mother ground that gave us forth, bestowed to us it`s great fruits and goods, we shall not sit back and watch an immoral, self-magnifying, girlish child of a man, rape it.
our mother, england, calls to us, to crush the parasite upon it`s thrown, even if eventually, we get our heads cut off, the very life, stolen out of us.
we, freakeled, scrawny, red headed boys, men with grand perception, do pray for the very pillers of england, it`s vast skis, it`s lonesome roads, it`s swift trik of the toung.
we, the young, lonesome revolutionaries, give our heads and hearts, our dreams, and loves, our silk haierd women, the embrace of our mothers, the joy of tea at dawn, for her.
for our queen, for England.

unreal city.

unreal city.
notre dame
it`s etching roots infested with beatles
it`s raggedly clothed boys, in battles over rotten bread.
its roofs grand, embracing the sky, inhabiting, roof hoppers, stuffed with enormous dreams.

it`s dying artist with their dying gleam.
starving for the faces of madams and mademoiselle
who`s faces starve for wealthy absent minded men.
genteel, artists noticing the thin lines on the madam`s lips
the madam, frail, falls, for his presence.
in it`s vast corridors and cracked pavements
in it`s misty brown air, in it`s loud swaying music.
notre dame.
unreal city.
mother of my children.
pairs!
how the pitch darkness of you`re night sky
vigorously, engulfs your mediocre, ash brown architecture.
victorious, glorious, notre dame
be mine.
surround my weary soul.
unreal city.

oh solitude , if I must dwell within thee.

comfort me, and please do gently pull me out of my misery, my fantasy, which so helplessly pulls  me in deeper in which I fall into the terrifying gloom of hope.
of bright, flamboyant dreams.
and here inters my day whose air is infested by melancholy, as I sit atop the mountain and glare.and I have got nothing to do, no where to go, so I drowned deeper within it.
and now the leaves are most wonderful warm yellow, as I contemplate what us the source , what is the source of all human emotions?
what is the reason behind my bitter tong, my sour thoughts, why do I feel no joy, why do I need your comfort.
my mother was sweet and my father was gentle, my siblings play and hug and love and love.
why then/ why am I so bitter, so mournful? why do I only find comfort in you? dear solitude?
why is it that only atop a mountain, only deep within the heart of quite, and in quite comes its glory-forest, do I feel the slightest trace of joy.
oh solitude, must if I must dwell within thee.

I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.
I paint my face with colors of red, crimson red, blood red.
I am " great hollow fire"  and I am not afraid.
I am not afraid of the deep white vast snow invading my land nor the chilling , piercing air trapped in my chest, I am not afraid of their guns, or the dryness of summer, I am not afraid of hunger.
I am not afraid. not of the cruelty of war nor it`s vast destruction.
not of the deliriousness of helpless loss.
not of the terror of rejection.
not the living nor the dead.
because I am "great hollow fire" and I am not afraid.

l'amour c'est de la merde

the circus are in Paris, I am in Paris, I am within his arms, and he holds me.

I have always wanted to see a clown, I have always wanted to ride a carousel. places with lots of lights, food with lots of sugar, and warm figures tightly pressed against mine, are just the recipe to forget you for a moment.
he is gentle and he is kind and he is just enough to distract me.
but I am, and oh so tragically, in the wrong arms.
we get into a cafe, a tiny one right next to the tent, and I order une chocolat chaud  with extra marchmellos, I am wrapped within a soft coat, and it is unbelievable, it is most unbelievable, that I am surrounded with all the beauties of the world, and all I could think about is you.