i’ll mix a quarter of the moon
with scents of azaleas bloom
i’ll add a pound of your own heart
mix it with a tarot card
think nights of passion soaked in sin
redemption mornings bathed in gleam
imagine her melting the snow
playing with the cupid’s bow
her eyes are healing your heart’s pains
her kisses flowing through your veins
the southern cross adorns her chest
a bird is flying from her nest
why is your face turning so red?
(voices lament in a shell)
you’re not supposed to fall in love with me
mistakenly (or not)
i murmured the wrong spell
there was a field of poppies
maybe a meadow of cherries
or maybe it happened right by the sea
mama was pregnant
thrills of house sparrows
rested on her heavy breasts
moons and stars around her waist
and nobody heard
what the gypsy girl said
her voice was soft
winds playfully ruffled her shiny dress
and mama left
believing i would be born under the brightest star
i would conquer worlds from near and afar
yet the gypsy girl miscalculated by one grade
and fated me to love you till the end
“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”
Lawrence Durrell, Justine
Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.
During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.
Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.
A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.
In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos. We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
i miss you
like a little poor child
misses his home destroyed by war
like giant wounded albatrosses
miss their flights above blue oceans
like thirsty Bedouins miss water
like ancient swords miss their masters
like in the days before the resurrection
his followers missed Him
i miss your eyes
i’ve never seen
Exiling ourselves from ourselves. What better definition of hell is there?
Excerpt form the manuscript “Glass Lovers”