For Mahmoud Darwish & the woman he was not able to love

 

i.

Rain falling
Rain falling from the rooftops
Rain falling hard on the rooftops of my soul
Rain gushing breaking walking backwards hitting biting breaking bringing down the hard edifice dubbed The Tower of Poetry where poets go to sing about flowers & roses moistened in the grand valleys of lost lovers about hairs bending in the bushes of oily thighs about moans & voices rising & falling to the contortion of hands about hands trembling at the sight of the contours of souls about the desire to create a life – size image of a bohemian rascal obviously a poet laying on a bed clutching a pistol while his lover lays a hand on his unhairy chest

 

ii.

I walk
I walk on the streets
I walk on the streets smoking endo
I think
I think of lover I think of the flowery curls of her voice I think of her smiles towards the procession of winds I think of her eyelids gushing blood as women thirty of them walk naked each carrying a coffin containing the carcases of wombs as souls of dead children dance & float to a nearby cloud as truth disguises as a thief as bombs fall like carpets of rain on a wedding night while poets x-ray the beauty of flowers & anatomy of clouds

I walk on the street smoking endo clouds metamorphosed into angry bloating hounds truth walk frail old with broken legs maggots writhe in the squirmy nectar of unconscientious poetry poetry is a telluric camera with a blind reel metaphor is a rotting slice of bread I am walking down the street smoking endo birds & beds float on catacombs of guns praise guns praise the lock & barrel praise gunshots praise the worksheet praise the work

 

iii.

Worksheet
Tasks:
1. Liberate the magi
2. Adjust the thinking of t h=e critic

Critic
you said I should hate American poetry I hate American poetry I love Ginsberg and his band of holy desperados I love Pac & Dre & Snoop & Nas & the notorious B I G step up The Tower of Poetry and let me in I want to talk to the readers to the critics & the muhdafuckin crazy poets

I want to talk to the readers to the critics & the muhdafuckin crazy poets I eat ice I smoke worksheets I box clouds I juggle around the belly of the broken bottle I clean the firing chamber of dis goddamn pistol I load three bullets I barge into the house of the critic I take aim a dot in the forehead perfect alignment with the nose bridge (this critic get big head oo Ye Ye) Bang! Bang! Bang!

Perfecto!
This is how I adjust the thinking of the critic

Critic
you still think I hate American Poetry I hate American Poetry I love the gathering of bastards & fools & misfits who gravitate towards the luminosity of time I love Darwish he is an American poet who speaks with a Mandarin accent & sings of a homeless girl who carries the burden of the butterfly gravels assume the serenity of apples dried twigs are cinnamon used to adorn the broth of asparagus

Lover, should I tell Darwish & the gathering of bastards that his girl is still homeless & on her wedding night she broke stones and rubbles instead of bread
Lover, should I tell Darwish that the critic & some poets have nicknamed this homeless girl the ‘damsel of Galilee’ & she cannot walk or sit or lay or stand because there is no sand in Galilee
Lover, should I tell Darwish that we can longer see ‘the damsel of Galilee’ because there is no more Galilee

After the critic decreed the ultimate symbols of American poetry Boy Body Grief as anathema in The Tower of Poetry I took to writing my grief in the body of paint
Grey is a symbol of anguish apparent on the face of a Boy
Blue is the metaphor of pain multiplied by Grief
Grey creates the absence of absence in the scalding shoulders of Grief
Black is not the colour of water because water is the liquid of Grief
Orange is the disintegration of the Body of a Boy

Lover, as I walk on the street smoking endo dark poets wear black robes with hoods they rotate around a little god
I look above the horizon West has no poetry East has no poetry the Middle is a barren field where dark poets preach the gospel of wolves
I caress the barrel of my pistol I face the circle of dark poets I look at the tall slim poet levitating in the centre I take aim Bang! Bang! Bang!

This is how I adjust the thinking of poets

I think
I think of lover I think of the flowery curls of her voice I think of her smiles towards the procession of winds as the bodies of dark poets rise towards the cauldron of loss

Rain hitting gushing biting breaking
Rain falling hard on the rooftops of my soul
Rain falling from the rooftops
Rain falling

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Geetanjal Khanna on Unsplash