Memories

Whatever memories you have of me, they're now yours, and yours only. I have made myself forget them, forever obliterated from my mind. I am no longer interested in your friendship, in your company. Keep your social networks and teeming-crowds revelries, amuse yourself in empty halls, break all the oaths of presence when hardships strike down one who was one of yours.

Vain promises of vain people, and empty words.

You are living in and fostering an illusion which is propped up on your lack of knowledge in an age where absolute connaissance is possible. Be dumb, be scared, and alone with hundreds of friends who will never surround you, never prop you up, never be anywhere near your deathbed.

You foolishly think you have the power in your hands whilst you're holding onto thin air – your breath really – and you don't count the instant between this breath and the next.

Focus on your petty absolute necessities, and leave me alone now. I am tired of chasing after ghosts, of reaching out to your silhouettes in the dark, of looking for hope in you. Yes, I am tired of you, and your posts, your meaningless prattle and your technological whatnots.

I cut myself off of your world, and retreat, and shall come out only when duty calls, and only then, and commend you to a thousand devils until I forget about you altogether, and start living in peace, for the first time in decades.

Yes, I have given up on what people call life, without having so much as a clue about what it means. So what? Not a single one of you have professed any allegience to it, nor any wish to uphold its most basic standards. None has done anything to embellish it. I have done my share, tried my best, and I've seen you mar the work and my strengths are now spent.

Leave me alone, forever.

 

Aleppo

“Aleppo won't be there anymore,” i heard say,

“if we don't do anything to save it.”

terrifying thought, come to think of it,

that the alabaster city will be gone, any day.

in december, so this person said,

everything and everyone

will be gone or dead –

in quiet terror –

the battle neither

lost nor won.

for thirteen thousand years,

the copper city has stood

and withstood

the fears.

for thirteen thousand years,

it slowly gave birth to nations,

those that now bring it tears,

that wipe its generations.

today it lies blasted,

its wide-open rib cage,

licked clean, bloodied,

bathed in pure rage,

dehumanized,

pillaged,

shelled out of its shell,

pelted in,

buried

its language, its culture,

its buildings, its sculptures,

its ruins,

deconstructed

the city's whiteness marred,

washed in mire –

yet Aleppo has already disappeared –

when the first bullet was fired

when the first chunk of ground was delved

on july the nineteenth twenty twelve –

Aleppo was scratched off our memories

before we even dreamt of its demise

unthought

long afore its pines were seen dancing in the breeze

long afore its children were heard barrelling through the streets

Aleppo and its people were lost to us

Aleppo and its people are lost to us

Aleppo and its people were

Aleppo

Alep

 

The night buried in your lap

the night was buried in your lap

and your apron modestly covered it

the light from the oil lamp

amplified the waves of the fabric

it was decided that you would

encompass all that was made

from the sun to the woods

and the sea, you poor maid

sadness was made yours too

by some dark chain of events

and the waves of your dress

you shyly hid from the light

so that none would perish

in its ebbing threads

nor lose sight in the buried night

that night buried in your lap

 

Lucky

He is being told that he is lucky,
Lucky to be alive, lucky to be healthy,
Lucky to have a job, lucky to have friends,
Lucky to have money in case he needs meds,
Lucky to have a roof over his head –
So he is also lucky to be able to see red,
Also lucky to have both his legs
And the full usage of his ten fingers.
He's lucky not to see the leper that begs
Or the maimed that slowly dying lingers.
He is also lucky his ex doesn't kick him out
Or that his family doesn't blame him for the breakup.
He is lucky to be able to pout
Or in the event of tea to have a saucer and cup.
He is lucky that no one dismantled the sun,
Lucky that the world doesn't spin the other way
Or he'd have to live again the pain at a slow run,
And go through the irrelevant – for some – dismay.
He is a lucky little bastard,
Yeah, that's what he thinks he is,
If he doesn't turn drunkard
Or if he can find peace.
 

Intertexts

“ “ “ “ “ “What?” he exclaimed, as the turtle tipped the truck over, as his friend asked him something he didn't quite catch,” she narrated, and continued narrating her story to her voice-recorder, pacing to and fro in her sweltering flat, stark naked,” he told to an assembly of drooling, drunk spies,” he finished, concluding a night of heavy story-telling,” she said, not sure where she had lead her audience...”