It exists, today, another foul descent,
where thousands of sick acts are set:
Saydnaya, Assad’s concrete playhouse,
a spectacle, directed from Damascus,
with nefarious rehearsal rooms for Death.
Blindfolded, a man stands a metre above,
as if waiting on the prompt’s lost cue,
but he prays fast inside, his last lines,
knowing this, now, is his unseen drop,
having heard the rehearsed ropes:
On the floors overhead there is no God,
instead a dark ark of beaten, unequal men,
left half alive by guards and almost here,
woken by the screams of the sideshow
down below, which always over-runs.
A last series of kicks in strangulation:
The skinny ones flail, some half-done,
their weight does not always work as well:
Under a pointed direction, all of it is,
their legs are grabbed, a last pull on breath.
And we will watch, the streamed audience,
the dig and lift of thousands of bodies
from under loose mounds in deserts;
and the long dead will be disturbed
in the revival of evil’s latest show.
I needed a ritual to my writing, these poems are the result. My inspiration comes from the daily events, connections, interactions, and small things, which all seem to demand bigger attention from me. These poems form a narrative to my life, politically and emotionally, which I hope find engagement with other individuals whom are also just trying to get by, with, or without any diagnosis:
It is not what I am paid to do It requires a daily commitment I cannot complete a crossword, but I will attempt to complete verse complexities My children will need something to fill the vacuum we all create These words help me to cry out, cry, and work out why If I make someone respond, then I will have lived a life worthy of a life.