And maybe that’s why
it’s called Boxing day.
They put him in one
and took him away.
All wrapped up
in camphored ribbon,
calico-strung
ready for giving.
Express dispatched
postage free
fatiha*-stamped
delivery.
—
*opening chapter of the Holy Quran
In this game of
talking to God,
she is careful
to cover her toes
with the cloth
from her mother’s
jilbab.
Her hands pat
away at a tangled fringe
and away she goes;
Up
Down
Touch the ground.
Lips pursed
in the swiss-swiss-swiss
of beautiful
sweet
pious
gibberish.
Cairo
you are;
viscous hibiscus
the found ground
in cardamom mud
sentimental syrupy semolina
the crazy comfort of koshary.
He Butters My Bread
Just when I believed
with all of me
that I could never,
ever, ever,
ever,
even
possibly,
in one
billion lifetimes,
or two,
or three,
love a
millimetre more,
he goes
and makes
the perfect
chicken and
mayonnaise
sandwich.
Have you ever seen
the girl who can cry confetti?
Every shake of her head
scatters the celebrations
from her lachrymals
She wants to baptize you
In paper rainbows.
It’s freaky, I know.
But don’t turn away,
you can’t drown.
completion made manifest
Our love comes down to bread, milk and bananas.
The staff of life,
The stuff of bones,
The stomach-cramping fruit, his favourite whole,
I can only eat them baked, cooked or blended.
Our love comes down to who picks up the socks,
And who leaves them on the floor.
Who switches on the lights
And who changes the lightbulbs.
We’ve scaled no mountains (well, maybe Kilimanjaro one day should our bones obey)
We’ve swum no seas (need lessons first, the both of us)
We fought not long nor hard for us.
He did not write a song for me.
He didn’t have to.
Mummy asked about you Daddy,
Asked me why I didn’ write,
It’s not that you’re out of mind Daddy,
Just the words were not in sight.
I didn’ forget you Daddy,
Wasn’ that I didn’t care to write,
I know you get these letters Daddy,
That’s what they told me. Right?
We’re doin pretty good Daddy,
A whole old year has gone,
I slept through livin my dream, Daddy,
But this year I’m not sleepin on.
I’m gonna write these words Daddy,
Gonna write them until they sing,
You’re gonna hear my voice Daddy,
You’re gonna hear every string.
I don’t know if this counts though, as I scrawled while (wo)manning our paper goods stall at the fleamarket on Sunday. Probably took longer than five minutes too. Brain spew mostly. It’s what happens when you stop reading real books. Flies sit on the mind’s eyes. Creative kwashiorkor. Continue reading Free writing exercise
This has been inside of me for too many years now.
—
Schismatics, asthmatics.
can’t breathe
When they’re telling me,
How I seethe
When they’re telling me,
Where to pray.
What to display.
Yes, yes,
I am oppressed.
Compressed
by your ignorance.
Don’t you see you’re all the same?
To cover me,
To uncover me,
for fuck sakes
let me be.
Forgive me
of profanity.
Dear Almighty,
Let it not be.
—
You’re dangerous man,
Coz they think you’re right,
And on the menu we
Have crooked rib tonight.
Mufti,
Is it permissible
for me
To sometimes
Maybe
You know
think freely?
As long as it is
Within the confines
Of your mind.
—
Don’t break my faith.
You won’t break my faith
You can’t break my faith.
I submit
I submit
I submit
God be with me,
I’ll be patient,
I have lived all my life,
For your judgment.
