THE PERSIAN TRIANGLE (RA-KALI-ISA)

I.

The temperatures of darkness vary between dreams

solid, bone-cracking murkiness

to the light dusk of departure

within these realms we encounter spirits, dialects of worship written in gold hand on tablets. pilgrims and saints suffocated by the guilt of the rolling wheels of the search for god in the vast emptiness this life projects.

This cold has the bite of a steel jaw. rugged teeth tear through sinew and bone in quick calculated movements. blood freezes solid on the hardwood floors soaked into the rivulets and cracks. in the dungeons time labours on, unwavering. the slow ghostly minutes fall like snow and conceal our path back. 

II.

A blooded sun raises from within its womb

sparingly inching forward
fire invokes the spirits to bring the light forth

into the still grey hours

Salome forms her slender body through the reflections of glass. mirrors show her backward movements, the silk hugging her delicate bones like pearl ornaments beneath fabric. volatile eyes from where fear and magic have been distilled like old wines formed over time, trapped in amber, released in incantations through fire-worship. She moves emeralds between her fingers, moaning incoherently as the windows open and shatter the mute air. Outside is bird song, the death of todays mysteries.

III.

Between our sight-lines and the locusts, 

dawn bathes in the raptures of morning. 

the still wind curves between the hillocks

seeking rest in the quivering wheat

This is where I betrayed you. Your eyes innocent with trust. And I betrayed you. I broke you, like an opaque egg-shell falling in shards. your bones snapped under the weight. your eyes dampened to a dark, morose coal. I stretched out my hands and wiped my scent from your brow, and steered the boat outwards into the deserted ocean. 

IV.

Ritual. 

The absence of self.

Bodies lay in wavering states of lucidity, fighting for their memories to carry them onwards. Mine are dying slowly, stolen one by one in the wind. emptying the thoughts and recollections I carried for such eternities, chained like commandments around my neck, now rusting and breaking into pieces that no longer can be mended.

It is time for the ghosts to pass through these portals, and collect what remains of this dream.

THE MURDER TIDES

dragged from the whirling ocean I caught you

foam spitting and salt cascading from empty pores

the wind whipped your hair

and your eyes were dead as a cathedral 

lashes and eyebrows crushed

you clawed my back as the waters parted

and my thighs struggled to cope with the weight

I thought you dead, but your strength prevailed

perhaps a spasm or an instinct

your white dress exposed and ragged 

my breath passed onto your lips

moments later your eyes cleared with the fragrance of life

your fingers clasped my wrists

your hair began to breathe

"forsaken quest", you whispered: "I was at peace, now I am in hell once more".

I left you there for the tide to batter

for in my heart you were dead

and in memory, forgotten. 

METhA

radio nkhartoum

DEMI-GHOSTS

I walk the shrine whilst beyond the rain canvasses the sky

feeling the cool slate beneath bare feet

adorned on the walls are gods and goddesses wrapped in gold leaf

statues of Ganesh, Kali, Parvati a-top garlands of marigold

the thick incense washes through cracks in the wall

this temple lays still and broken a stones throw from home

home where black hash is smoked in spirals of inspiration

where words scrape onto dull paper 

this temple, by the banyan tree, is home

where the nights characters pass at dusk

and bidis fill the lungs, 

and chai the hearts

and beggars seek coins in the swollen gutters

and butterflies speckle the leaves above

and the rattling trains carry workers to their loved ones

and diesel fumes become rare perfumes

and bus horns, symphonies

and the slow decaying buildings spread their wonderful nostalgia throughout the streets and squares of this hiding place

and curled in blankets under the banyan tree, we smoke cigarettes and talk of the end

the end that may not be witnesses by our eyes

suturing the night in it's delicate wound, we vanish

to realms unseen, and the open door of emptiness

our faces remain aligned between the constellations 

the threshold of your mouth becomes Jupiter's bow

stained in wine- spilled and deep

smiles drift past in ghostly layers, the eyes remain stark 

whilst bodies flitter in and out

between bells and chants

THE DEAD AIR SPEAKER

Lying crusted and decayed on a long, white road

the dead air speaker coughed its final instructions

"ladies and gentlemen, soak your sorrows in this final moment,

the whistles of hades are ringing above the countertops

the ale is warm, fires have slowed to frozen waves

hail hail the speaker. long may he live

nero, Ghandi-ji, Stalin, forze milano

stacks of books may burn but the truth will remain

inside frigid hearts and dead souls

these are the new lieutenants, the sorrow mongers

taken from catalogues that the rich discarded, wrapped in italian silk

fro fro the horses challenge each other, girders stretched to breaking

through wind tunnels and the arches of light we battle

molecules of rain dissipating the dust that gathers

around old, dying lungs. 

strange lights float about the slave decks

rusted skulls through bleeding

grave-yellow heroin veins bursting open

creating stops in the narratory