I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
They sent me a salwar kameez
&nb sp; peacock-blue,
& nbsp; and another
glistening like an orange split open,
embossed slippers, gold and black
&nbs p; points curling.
Candy-striped glass bangles
&n bsp; snapped, drew blood.
Like at school, fashions changed
&n bsp; in Pakistan -
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Playing in sunshine
is a twirling girl and cat
Meows and laughter
Romping away sweet moments
until the day is drowsing
In tall green grasses
pretty kitty's soon sleeping
in shadows of day
The orange sun's retreating
Long hair blows in soft winds.
Soft skin pierced by sharp thorns.
The beauty of the rose comes at a cost,
Red blood for a red rose.
I saw a stranger in the woods,
Who sprinted ere me,
With her lucent brown stick,
And behind her, there was a bee.
She was singing a lay,
That pulled every creature,
And I noticed her stick,
The lucent was of magic.
bright pink fingernails
a straw hat low on her brow
cool in sunglasses
at summer's hot verge
beneath a green tree calm breeze
wild waves crash nearby
shadows of August
in the midst of reign of gold
This girl smoked 14 cigarettes in
a span of one and a half hours
"Yeah, but they're slim," she says
"But they're still fourteen."
"Yeah, but so am I," she says.
"But... you look at least eighteen..."