Posts Tagged ‘SixSentences’


Women
Fragrant roses bear prospective souls in their wombs.
Fragrant roses bound to kitchens, while soaked in sweat.
Fragrant roses wash dishes and garments, and do all chores.
Fragrant roses toil in fields, even under rain, so wet.

Fragrant roses tamed, domesticated and confined.
Some are happy, but most are bored being in the vase.
So, feminism was born to make the vase fall apart.
A woman has brain, too. She can excel and be an ace.

Oh, stagnant minds! Do roses need to march
in another braless day? Do they need to rebel and revolt?
Yes, they need to rebel and occupy stagnant minds,
and shake off that dirt from the mind of any dolt.

Rebellion of a Prostitute
Oh, men! I don’t want you
to tear my body’s maps anymore.
I don’t like you
to stain my sheets anymore.
Yes, you invaded my body’s sheets,
but not the labyrinth of my soul.
I won’t let you sink
in my lush forms anymore.
I won’t let you squeeze
my fruits anymore.
Go and buy yourselves
fruits from stalls!
I’m no longer for sale.
The buck no longer baits me,
nor does the quid.
Today I’m a rebel.
I was silently protesting
in the streets
of my stained filthy veins,
gathering up my wounds,
piece by piece,
not to sink in the abyss.
But today I shout,
scream, and yell.
Today I discovered
that protesting is lust-laden,
and pleasure soaked.
Today I like to salvage
my body’s cities.
I won’t give my juice
to those offering me
some pounds.
Today I declare
once and for all
that my juice
is awaiting only that one
who’ll give me
pure love, so profound.

Confusion
some
raindrops fall on the asphalt
a dog is running
meaningless barks
the prostitute
under her umbrella
is spitting
on the asphalt
the asphalt
is confused now
as it doesn’t
distinguish between
the raindrops and the prostitute’s spit
as the dog
keeps barking


A Feast for Sharks: A 7-day Diary of an Illegal Immigrant

Day one. By the end of a bleak wrathful day,
found the targeted house—
a shelter away from the eyes of cops.
Day two. Met varieties of aliens. Built a small fire.
Made green tea with mint.
Day three. Fought over a loaf of bread. Peace came again.
Started looking at the sky through a little window.
Day four. Constructed a death/dream boat.
Started dreaming. The seagulls of heaven arrived.
Day five. Took a rest. Inhaled the balmy breeze of the blue
Mediterranean Sea. Strangers stared at each other.
Cautiously hummed songs of their dreams.
Day six. Stopped dreaming. Prepared for the unknownpath.
Some food, water and cigarettes.
Day seven. Dream danced again to the rhythm of the
palpitating hearts. Stuffed like little sardines in a can.

And the sharks would take care of everything.

Daydreaming
My little
town is surrounded
with mountains: Nude mountains
coated in grey ash. Not enough trees.
There are no vivid grass and no fountains.
The mountains seem to me like a round inedible cake.
How I long for vivid grass! How I long for ripples in a lake!
I wonder if I can dream of pastures, so green. A little blue boat sailing
a ravine. Water flows in a river, so serene. White sheep browsing the grass.
A shepherd holding a flute made up of brass. Scents, scenes, sounds, savours, and
strokes. All senses mingle. The body and the soul jubilantly jingle. What a bliss
to feel the body and the soul harmoniously kiss! Kiss bliss bliss kiss kiss kiss bliss
bliss bliss kiss. A snake was coming from the mountain hissing. “I really miss your
flesh,” she said. “Wake up from your dream. I wanna eat your flesh, so fresh.” She said.