These are not my first nights.
I am from elsewhere
but I was born here
you know the difference.
You recognize in my voice
I have an insurmountable feeling of responsibility to the mess.
I am entitled my indiscretions.
I lose your face for an instant,
this devastates me,
because I need you,
I am so needy.
The war is over,
there are no wars to remember,
so why are they still suffering?
That is what we think,
but we are constrained by intellect,
and it is hard enough to convince these animals their worth,
let alone the value.
Wouldn’t it seem to be so much easier to forgive,
and carry on without the malice,
to a citizen,
who understands their tools.
But this land is cut off from history.
the massacres are mounting.
What alarms me most is the efficiency they posses
as they put it,
see what will happen.
they are coming to you,
fleeing their homes and entering yours.
The largest city of a distant neighbor,
an encampment settled over our hills,
driven to caves
for their piety.
Who rules our despotic settlement?
I am not yet told,
I have not yet noticed.
What I wait for is a sign,
A public declaration that the ministry is now in our hands,
or something of the sort.
I name the Persian
says her ears have been chopped by martyrs
who replace their own to hear the news.
But I’m yet to meet the Persian
the reason I am here
in line with an un-foiled plan
plans not yet foiled
rarely go motion.
forgive my leaving suddenly when you wanted me at your door.
I have always been afraid of commitment
especially the type
that entitles me to joy.
Read it in my words,
I am depressive
I can’t be sure I see
stealing only pigments
of the entire picture.
reading prophecies of guilt
bred at the womb and beard
we’ll never meet again.
The playing symphony
leans in from the sky
tickles the outskirts of my elbow,
I am a night’s swoon away from dying.
A night’s moon and a damaged bitch in my hands.
but she hides the delicacy of her home in the beauty of her mind.
I notice because I am noticeable,
magic magic magic
sell me the perfume
of her derailment
lies in the sympathy
provided her by others
fascinated by the mark of suffering.
I offer a tip she refuses to accept
from my hands, nothing is acceptable
knowing this, why does she relent?