A KIND OF PHENOMENON

Nobody reads us
where pastors are pirates
to say
“where people die
yet to beg to resurrect
some completely die
& walk like zombies.”

At times nobody is aware
of what makes
a cock’s lust rises a day time
yet some copulate
nightly in gloom
of their doom

& walk as mad chicken do
too, some so do
to hide those
sad images of darkness.

Yes,
there’s a huge ideal
some poets in their ways
camouflaged

& that fits no more
to the rhyme of liveless rhythms
that one lives in
as pleasing as words’ cohesive
built up
of less distinct trunks

& they easily die
like scholars of my country.

a few of us
still breathe as unknown
gunmen
take a rest
to their toxic selves
for it hurts as one dies
of gun angers

& never palpates
the bony trigger.

last time a sun in an adieu
got wounded
[when a poet bowed
to escape the bullet]
it bled, it groaned

& oath to bypass the space
of a country
where bullets licked its flesh
another was pierced
to the bone marrow
by canine of carnivores.

HE [poet]
just left a pot of words
he about to delve to paint
a black part
of the world he lived
before misfortune partook
in an untimely journey.

Today we are here
& both as remnants
or to be indescribably remnants
or to be lickers of king’s necrotic
flesh
or to imagine the good
shepherds in characters
THAT’S absolutely time
to resolve.

Sure
some leaders are as demons
as idol shepherds
i ask, i ask to understand
that within lies the roots
that if remove may uncodify
those roots
to detach form ours
& be free.

NIGHT NEXT

a night next
to the mausoleum
wearing bullets-scars
& that justifies death –
a relief
to the war-torn souls.

In the dead silence
that delays‚ daily quivering
with moist palms
that yearn
to be made a poetic shrine
or a shrine of art
or for Shakespeareans
at a poetic puberty

yet were seen
like self-imposed prophets
yet can make (some) portraits
in poems
to uncounterfiet nature.

I will love to know how an invisible
man becomes a god.

I will love to know
how HE sacrifices verses
to feed his disabled lords.

I will love to know how sharp lips
turn out a literary oracle‚
yet dance to the dead rhythms.

Not far less than a year
wisdom has partaken to the demise
a demise of folklore
a folklore sacrificed for the King
to regain his beauty
that is never coded in familial DNA

whatever,

nobody pens down
to making hIM relive
through lean verses
or a tale to recite at Nile-graveyard
or to recite at the poetic shrine
till when for hIM to be made relive
through lean poems
through memories of sad colours.

MISLAY OF JUSTICE

The lies drummed
Into our ears for decades
By those renowned beasts
And those crime profiteers
Are running amok
Unpunished,
Sacrificing most meekly souls
On calamitous orders
In exchange for a night meal
To those unfit men; barbarians,
Diving the state into the darkness
Diving the state into the abyss.

I know this diary phenomenon
Will cause me prison
Undeservedly
For the mislayers of justice
Are camouflaged
In obedience and honesty
Yet morally vile &
Yet morally degenerate belches;
So wild
Unto those denigrate shepherds.

It’s not the hooting of guns
Nor whispering voices
Of pride
Will erase the wretchedness in you
But to kneel down before
A crowd of ebullient beings,
Asking for amnesty
And for your peaceful solace to be.

I put this fragment of words
On benches of papers
Together
To apprise the generations
To come
Of the existence council
Of evils
Born with nectar of cruelty in their bones
And sooner
After their departure
To the depth of graveyards
There shall we open to surface
The photographs of injustice
They have mislaid upon each of us.