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