After receiving fame and honor for his verse in distant lands, the poet returned to his country, where the people who had once scorned and ridiculed him, ran after him like a gaggle of geese. He ignored them, but they didn’t leave him alone. They followed him when he went to pray in the forest; […]Read more "When the cicadas sang"
I live in a beige apartment with off-white curtains and a grey marble floor. There’s an old piano in the living room that I never use, and an untuned guitar and a screechy clarinet stuffed in a cupboard somewhere with piles of unread, dusty books. Dust from a construction site nearby flits into the balcony […]Read more "Here’s to life"
Have I told you that you’re my lucidity? The clearest thought that settles somewhere in the back of a shadowed mind, and slowly, gently, inch by inch, lights it up, until I’m smiling again though my eyes are bloodshot and I’m staring like someone catatonic, looking through the phases of my life and time? You […]Read more "Lucidity"
A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in a coffin of a wasted life, when I was young, my father the demon, said, “I am thine and thou art mine,” with a devilish, deceitful, duplicitous grin, when I was young, my mother the angel said, “Stay strong and surely, you’ll succeed,” with a sincere, […]Read more "A song of experience"
I’m a synthetic cockroach who was manufactured in a lab in Syria after the Third World War. Born with an IQ of over 200, they sent me on different espionage missions to the United States of Europe, and I complied and sent them tons of data using my antennae, but Avant-Garde Jazz changed everything. I […]Read more "Cockroaches and Jazz"
My sorrow, she comes to me, when lifeless apartment complexes with windows like cardboard boxes with holes punched in them replace the honey chested, sweet, ashen-winged thrush with her vivacious, polyphonic birdsong, and echoes of who I’ve become are the only voices in my mind, saying, “You’re forever failing, and falling into a fading symphony…you’re […]Read more "Lessons"
I thought of her when that romantic cottage with its burgundy chimney, walls of stone and dreamy garden leading up to a calm, comforting, consoling canal became a favela: a machine gun, overpopulated, tumbledown town with littered streets, giving a sojourner no succour. I thought of her when post-rock songs by Mogwai, If These Trees […]Read more "I think of her"