november  2016




...all my life I have been waiting to be born

longing, in fact, to be expelled


from this dull, incomprehensible pregnancy

and all my life I have watched in the distance


the shadow-soul watching me

a spectre of myself who even now


seems to know more of me than I do myself

but no matter what I do


this womb’s irrational matrix

still holds me fast


just as it has always held me

an animal hiding in the undergrowth


fearful of birth

afraid to kick out


although once I did imagine

that words could impel the sky


to flow with incandescent silver

through humanity’s heart


that reason would finally rise

an irrefutable chorus


from every throat on the planet

but I was mistaken


words seem more a key

made to lock the womb than open it


and besides, my soul has been forced

to crawl even deeper into the dark, amniotic undergrowth


outside the spectre’s shadow waits

and again I am afraid to move


again fearful of my own presence...






...does time really crave, really yearn

for some routine apocalypse


some outlandish, mathematical fear

or perhaps for some unutterable promise


it seems sometimes so

but time is an endless fever


a game of tangled prophesies

dust downloaded into the eyes


a bag full of cotton-soft enchantments

and, of course, the grave inside the womb


where time also burns

its ashes becoming entertainment


a poetry edging beyond the speed of light

and with such starving distances


time leans out

grips and swallows


down through the chambers of the heart

all the vast faces frozen within eternity


the awkward, feverish blood

moving from star to star


with enchanting, mathematical cruelty

the endless apocalypse inside the womb


the hunger with which poetry burns

the promise for which the dust yearns...






...aleppo child, you did not ask for life

neither for any gift of love


yet you sit amid the ruins

with only half a face


the men about you

hating the very air they breathe


how then can I or anyone

now give you back your trust in the world


your eyes accuse the lies

in every one of mankind’s promises


where men and women have learnt to laugh

with their mouths full of the ashes of their children


yet your eyes still will not leave me

they scream and scream


down into the hollow ethics of men’s words

every child’s broken life


is a god without a conscience

every child’s forgotten pain


is a thousand more years of hate

every child’s love


is a gift that powers the human soul

and for once


 your eyes must never close with forgiveness... 




                         (iv) I stand trying to make sense

of each and every arterial breath


mountains, valleys, rock faces

all stumble towards me


all intent on splitting

the blue darkness beneath my feet


yet, undeterred, I keep on watching

as oceans now rise


arching across the deep, emerald skies

they have come, I know, to spit


some narcotic firmament into my face

and there, surely, howling through the salt rain


is the undeniable sting of words

hammering against my forehead


you exist only

for the sweetness of certain death


the wellspring of your rage

but remember, there is a beauty in nothingness


which has nothing to do with beauty

it is a crumbling, exhausted luxury


the inexplicable stability of cold atoms

just a few steps outside existence...