Souqs
In the souqs of Arabia,
I admired the ruined men
Crying effortlessly
Into gaudy doorways.
I had spent the day
mapping the territory
Of my hallucinations
And I envied the reality
Of their situation.
Berries
I work my fingers to the bone unraveling
The convoluted brambles that connect
My rivals, a fine bunch of fools, our hearts
Are berries hanging purposefully on
The threads of our ambition, ripening
In the confusion that she tended to,
Dilating, jeopardizing the restraints
Of ignorance; – demanding her love with
The bribery of sacrifice. I clench
My hands in prayer dripping scarlet streams,
She kisses my eyes then uncups my fists
And says that ‘wrath is your salvation from
The brooding undergrowth of earthly yearning.’
The Broken Man
On the roadside
I saw a body dismembered
Into useless segments,
The entrails of a broken
Pomegranate stained the road,
Picked at by underhanded
Vultures. I gestured, ‘young man,
Would you like me to end this disgrace
And bury you from sight?’
His head answered raspingly,
‘It’s kind of you to offer,
But leave me be,
When the vultures have feasted,
And all that remains
Are bitter pips;
I will piece myself together, –
And then, I will be a man.’
