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10 Hours

I look at the numbers wishing and hoping

the sun will eclipse now, anytime soon

to kill boredom and dread afflicting souls

shoving imaginary hands of tyranny

strangling the life in humans.

 

I see squares in blank paper,

in blank screens contained in a box

with four corners I can’t retreat nor surrender

to the establishment who pays the rent.

Whose only consolation is a shape on the wall-

 

you call window with a view of the outside,

leaves from trees hissing and teasing

about the monotony of the lines.

Too much lines I followed and treaded

on a high wire. In surreal silence

 

like years and ages etched into my face.

It filled the pillow of dreams each night

I imagined that I won’t bow down

to that desk anymore. Slaved to wait

the longest minutes I run until it’s time to go.

 

I dreamt that there’ll be no more squares

but orbs and circles beyond the hours.

No more visions of clocks slowing seconds

and inner screams burning out at its grip.

Only time, a ticking bomb for a meltdown.

 

10 hours

as if they own me.

Dead line.

You are once a stranger

and I trusted no one, until

you intrude my world.

And I regret letting you in.

 

I allow you to change some

of my usual routines, I thought

there’s a universe unknown

to me, a seemingly cold sphere.

 

I disentangled my defences.

You decoded a mystery.

Castles of steel foddered

by wordsmiths of belief.

 

My mind’s a map while you roam

outside, driving its secret streets

chasing phantasm and it throbs

like sleepless butterfly.

 

And jealousy just hits me.

You are a beautiful dream

I should’ve let escape my grasp-

a curse clasped with my hands.

 

You can share a meal.

You can share a bed.

You can let somebody else

touch you in eleven minutes.

 

You can be part of the city

in its thrilling rendezvous

with strangers becoming

your friends and soon, lovers.

 

I need to understand why

I should not restrain your eyes

from seeing another beauty

when everything starts-

 

And everything ends.

To know it when nothing’s

supposed to end a choice

to be free pursuing happiness.

Some Skin

I do not know

if modesty reciprocates economy,

if morality stands a chance,

let me think now.

 

The shape of your dress

suggests

the promise of contours

of valleys and hills,

rolled into

that voluptuous ridge

your cleavage reveals.

 

Your beauty maintained

on night creams

and anti-aging gels

to appear lighter

and paler. You dab

some talcum

or face powder

to shine

like a nacreous  pearl.

 

You glisten like marvel

of an immaculate gold

in the mirror. While

your perfume leaves

a scent to mesmerize

and hypnotize

on every man’s desire

lost in the art

of your seduction.

 

Your lips is an illusion

of an inner sanctum.

A prized conquest-

euphoria. Only the voyeur

dares to enter,

and touch without guilt,

and tickle

on every man’s fantasy-

its forbidden pleasure.

 

Your body as a trade

makes a woman’s secret

hard to accentuate

without showing,

without shedding

some skin,

some naked truth,

some coveted assets.

 

Like a midnight nymph,

hoping for some man

with happy hours to spare

to shape a dream.

But you know- like others,

he will not stay.

Longer before

the day breaks.

 

You, among the many

became one of every man’s

warm bodies to breed.

And it isn’t going to last,

no promises made.

As soon as his lust fades,

he runs away

taking the shimmer

from your moon.

Uncertain Stages of Grief

Silence have snatched a life away

from my trembling hands,

out in the shadows

I only had screams

in my mind without a sound.

 

While in my room, there were movies.

Hours stretched with unfinished reels

of laughter devoid of warmth now,

embraces stale and cold I imagine

some sad movies of should’ve been.

 

I hear a voice of someone singing

loneliness that I don’t understand

like fire alarm bells ringing, piercing

into my soul, bleeding without blood.

 

Tell me the pain of being skinned alive,

impaled, staked and burned with fire

of the gaping void in my universe

retreating into its black hole.

 

Wake me up from this chasm.

Rescue me from this denial.

Rise me up from the pit.

From the quagmire of anger

rising and falling its tempest

like ocean waves I float

and drown in seasickness.

 

I’m not finished with you yet.

You’ve left me exactly where I am

unguarded, in shock and reasons

were not the answers to my questions,

why?

My Father Died

 

That sober news in between sobs of my mother

fades in wispy notes from the other line.

Finally awaited- the bombs have dropped.

 

I suspect the sunset will turn

into dead stars this evening

while the cold wind languishes

as the last remembrance.

My heart in its faint nervous beat

became cadences of urgency,

free at last from its cages.

 

I begin to imagine throngs of flower wreaths

to a coffin and a flag, draped across its whitened sheen.

I can see forlorn faces, those sincere sad acquaintances

whisper their nice condolences, those sweet anecdotes

about the man and his lifeless body. I imagine

his image in me, my uneasy composure.

 

I fill my lungs with air and heave a sigh of relief.

The burden of many years in denial, disowned

of what has become of a child as this.

 

I forgot. Where I keep and hidden deep

the face of the patriarch of the house

and his kingdom he ruled with an iron fist

that broke many of my unspoken dreams.

I do not know what it will become-

when the news is a bullet that penetrated

like a shrapnel misplaced in empty despair.

 

But no, maybe, I wished for it before.

A king who rules will die eventually

long enough when the rules I will break,

torn at the door away from his grasp.

And I, a son, whose life had been buried

out of father’s love to its silent cemetery.

Lived each day in the absence of his ghost,

forgiveness I lay in his memory I lost.

 

Are You Reading Me?

 

Let’s gather around the fire

and tell some stories.

Why peeling onions

can make you cry?

I prepare the flour

kneading it to the dough,

will I put more salt and pepper?

 

Pick a clove of garlic.

Crush it with mortar and pestle.

Squeeze a lemon juice.

Beat the egg. Don’t forget the yolk.

Drizzle olive oil in a sauce pan,

just a low fire to warm

the happiness of a woman.

 

It’s in the symphony of knives

slicing on the chopping board.

Hear the distinct chink of china.

See the glimmer of the glass.

It’s in the gentle whisk of the soup ladle

stirring and  swirling shapes in the smoke-

simmering smell, sweating images

salivating over ambrosia.

 

Heaven is the reach of your man’s stomach,

like passionate mouths of the gods

waiting to be satisfied and to be filled.

From the nook of your kitchen-

seducing a man of the food romance,

a table prepared for tonight.

Peppered and sprinkled in herbs

and spices to awaken Aphrodite’s appetite.

 

Taste, they say-

is a recipe for love.

Are you reading me?

 

Catching Ball

It’s hard to catch you,

spare me some minutes.

Your eyes hop from pages

to pages without looking.

Inattentive as an infidel.

 

Put on your reading glasses.

Search me deep in my cavern.

A pearl reside within the sinew

of words in double meanings.

Filter a net trap for thoughts.

 

Prong your finger and walk

each syllable to understand

the train of telling stories.

Speak your fears out loud

battle against my reasons.

 

Braid me into rope

and tie me down.

Strangle tongues

and let me spit out

an inconvenient truth.

 

If something somehow

that you don’t comprehend,

grab me by the hand

and catch me a homerun,

a goal post in your mind.