Collection of memories and creativity

Father

 

Pressing a cold coin

To soft prick heart

He slit and pushed

But skin would not part

 

Father, father, forsake me

I begged.

Let me fall, let me die

Let my wings be clipped,

I will not fly

 

Still he pressed

Cool metal counted

Irregular beating,

Beatings, father, father

Help me still.

 

Placing his thumb

Precisely above

Adjusting weight

Shoulder to forearm

Wrist to coin,

Crunch.

 

Caving structure,

Unfolding epidermis

Trickle, tumble,

The coin clanks,

With metallic twang

As he shouts,

 

“Allah hu akbar.”


I am undone

 

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Collection of memories and creativity

The Human Is a Queer Creature

The human is a queer creature;
Facilitating a multitude of features.
Stalking by it’s white, white eyes
It lurks on the periphery of nature.
.
This impetuous beast adorns disguise
Colourful and bequeathed  – but full of lies.
Prostration is it’s manipulated display,
Submissive façades shall be our demise.
                                                                                                                                                                                        .
Amassing Himalayas of acidic decay –
This species adores the violent slay.
Revealing in folds  of peculiar routine
I often wonder, to whom does it pray?
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Three Insignificant Letters

We have given three insignificant letters
Gathering in circles with broken beggars.
We have given one bemused syllable,
It seems we were always so cynical.
                                                                                   .
The Arabs, they refer to it  as ana’ak,
Throats vibrating, plunging back.
Cutting the air with such guttural thunder
One is left in such resounding wonder.
                                                                                  .
The Indians, they call it Āliṅgana
Tongues embrace the divine whimper
To hold fast; to cling to; to cherish.
These words, they’re made to nourish.
                                                                                  .
So, press your chest to mine my dear,
Our beating  hearts are your call to prayer.
Is it so wrong that I must claw and clutch
For your last, warm inexplicable touch?
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“Where Are You From?”

 Momentary pause bathes disappointed thoughts; the steady flow of analytical data I had been gathering screeches to an abrupt halt. Files upon files of presumptions, thoughts, images pushed aside. The gentleman facing me, from what I have gathered, holds his drink a little too tightly and his eyes equally as loose. Often retaining conversation well within the realms of comfort, until now. “Where are you from?” The question poised is constructed to achieve two largely intriguing results. First of all, my tentative companion would like to assess my exterior worth, I am not white therefore my anthropological basis  is questionable. The second reason relates to his inability to comprehend that I may be more like him than he would allow himself to admit. This is all achieved within the safety of a duplicitous question, I give him benefit of doubt and reply “Durham, and yourself?”
                                                                                                                                                                                         .
His answer, is sadly as predicted. Careless eyes scan down, then up. “oh, no – I meant where are your ancestors from?”
                                                                                                                                                                                           .
Ideally, my response would be embedded within some South Asian country, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Bhutan… ect. ect. Upon hearing what he expected he may now consequently reply with some irrelevant bordering racist thought on the days of British colonialism. By doing so he has stroked his anxieties in placing an entire ocean between the fear that  my reality is akin to his own.  A blissful comfort I wholeheartedly embezzle.
                                                                                                                                           .
“Well,  early migration of anatomically modern humans seems to suggest Africa.”
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Himmat

I began to walk
too late in life.
While the other boys ran
I shifted weight, from
shoulder
to
shoulder,
heaving leg
after leg.
                                                            .
but
                                                             .
amidst my slow crawl
my
distasteful waddle,
I discovered
the burnt smell of the carpet,
the dust ridden
fire place
the joys of light
as
it bounced from
polished oak chairs
to bookcase and back again.
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Lamentation

I unlock my phone and there she was, beautiful as the first day I met her, sitting on the beach with her hair loose and her body open, looking into the distance, waiting, calling. I remember that day as if it were yesterday; the sea gulls circled our bodies as they danced to the song of the crashing sea. Breaking apart into the love we never needed to proclaim. A tear forms at the corner of my eye as my heart begins to fade. The only energy I can produce manifests in a quiet whisper, resonating the waves that crash against my broken body.

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Dulce Bellum Inexpertis

Lift heavy hands to my head
Caress away my worries
fingers gentle, maternal
absorb trauma that ferries
oscillating brain to bone.
Echoing “set me free lover”
proves impervious but carnal.
Free the fallen flower inside
Residing in ash beneath eyes
Hold me tight, under the cover.
                  *
Bodies tangle, unwillingly
in the depths of deaths sleep,
Embryonic universe, spills
from reverie to realities keep
splitting guilt by her seams.
“Hold on to me lover, hold tight”
swallow the contraceptive pill
Regurgitate the love I gave in
orchestral thundering, “why”
Bodies drift into the night.
                  *
Eyes that flutter often forget
in the shades of darkness, listen
dulce bellum inexpertis
etched, on arms of politicians.
Chain my body to a boulder
inhale, devour raw liver.
Forbidden to reminisce
Histories lack of her story,
Look, look to your lost lover
As she flows into a sombre river.
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China Tea Pot.

The moon has fallen –
The sun is dead.
My mother’s tea pot
Broken like bread.
            *
Disheveled fragments
seldom held;
Lay on the alter –
Needing a mend.
             *
Her body Hollow
With pursed lip.
Her arm no longer
Glued to her hip
             *
Losing her head
Was often the norm;
Hell hath no fury
Like a tea pot scorned.
             *
She’d sigh and sigh
And moan some more
About the table cloth,
Window and door.
             *
Perplexed little thing
Molded in China
She hadn’t a clue
She was in South Carolina.
             *
She’d whistle and hoot
Every Autumn and Winter.
Crying and crying
For the Milkman and sprinter.
             *
On the twenty-seventh of July
She fell from the table.
That round impervious bottom
Meant she was rather unstable.
             *
The moon never fell
The sun never died
But that stout little tea pot
No longer cried.
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Beaten Into Adulthood.

Whip down as the nail pierced my sole
Ripping into my shoe, flesh and coal
Vultures perch on edge behind me;
Hoping to break me for better control.

Whip down, as the high hat seared my head
Tightening imagination, now I am dead.
Prod after prod the pritt stick probed;
Lobotomizing Helen into deepest red.

Whip down, as the rope takes a twist.
Smothering my breath, no more lisp.
Stifled noose, Ich, Ich, Ich.
What can one do, but persist?

MF
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