formication

a chain of people holding hands in Lebanon

–dozens of kilometers, I heard–

the book vendor’s voice as she elaborates on some Norwegian novel

–I never read it in the end–

his pink shirt smelling of a wooden wardrobe and Chanel

–it used to intensify toward his wrist–

people singing well on casting shows

–although I really do not care–

Snow Patrol on gravel-grounded morning walks

–sound and pulse and volume–

breathing in snow-pregnant winter air

–I could taste it when I was a kid–

the morning we began this list, high on caffeine and in love

–unlike you, the formication did return–

Shakespeare’s vanishing anagram

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

All damp, I tease you. Shame’s tremor

hums ahead. I act a role, so play me

as you create hell’s metaphor.

I am a sad muse, teach me hope.

Come, I’m all yours, Master

My spasms harm as I rot.

Still, you are there

to hear my praise.

I compare thee

to a red rose,

I presume.

Please,

dare

me.

2020 Border Battles

(inspired by a sonnet form, arranging cut-outs from several reports on the “corona virus” and “migrant crisis” in March 2020)

 

In the battle, Europe has responded, discussing outer border closures,

Struggling with the influx and its screening,

As there’s confusion on the streets, regarding face-masks, meetings, and exposures;

The military build-ups gave new meaning,

 

To some ways which help communities combat, obeying social distances.

The border crisis calls for more fences,

All despite the several agreements that allow free movement without checks,

Water cannons and tear-gas will push back.

 

How dangerous is this virus, what are the symptoms and how are they detected?

As the crisis lasts, which European countries will be those worst affected?

Tell me, how many are, in fact, approved?

 

It might be a defeat for human rights,

But it’s a victory for the leaders that are braced: Together ahead, they move –

While children freeze to death in Syrian nights.

The unlovables

I’ve been embracing you despite yourself,

in accurate defiance

of the peach hair on my neck,

against your will and maybe mine,

like unsweetened yoghurt,

yet less conducive to my guts.

I smelt your chest

in perfect congruence

with childish stubbornness

and in alignment with my craving

for the stale taste of

eternally unlovables.

May be a reminder

maybe you never were

more than a reminder

of the  sugar cravings

I’d oppressed ever since

I was thirteen years old

 

maybe I never was

meant to pick her amber

hair off your cardigan

as you put too much fake

honey in my flat white

 

maybe my body was just not

ready to endure more

winter days in May

that seemed so cold to you

and awfully close to me

 

and surely it’s not you

who’s lying here right now

since you’re 8000 miles away

while I am in my childhood bed

again – clutching a hand that is not yours

posthuman

we multiply ontologies

and contemplate democracy

as though we were protagonists

transcending the anthropocene

we bended the whole universe

to hotheads and denialists

radically–rapidly

we strangled what was possible

whatever we could grasp

merged our bodies with

the running room to be

to live in ruptures, live like rats

in blind spots of the junk

expose the monsters we’d become

lurking in the dark

as incarnations of their fantasies

we’ll be crawling out in swarms

from the shades our childhood beds still cast

χαμαιλέων chamailéōn

I am

the earth.

 

I’m the Lion

who arouses.

 

I am a contrast

to the place I claim.

 

I’m what they call converse,

like a chameleon,

 

Dressed in anti-camouflage.

I am in your zone, exposed

 

to all the offerings of yours,

of which you had not known before

 

you saw me in the crowds — sticking out.

‘innocent’

in·​no·​cent | \ˈi-nə-sənt

from Latin innocentia,

that denotes no ‘harm‘,

as well from Latin nocere,

‘injuring‘ someone,

or anyone involved.

 

blameless with integrity,

upright and disinterested,

lacking guilt or artifice

like a child,

protected and naive.

 

surely free

from legal wrong,

free from guilt and

free from sin,

with candid lack of knowledge,

 

I declare you are:

ingenuous, artless, ignorant

of the evil you have caused

of the guilt we’re all incapable

to blame you for.

Watershed

It

Might

As well be a

Watershed moment,

Since I like to dive deep,

Always, until I can hardly breathe

Until I can hear my heartbeat: Loud and clear.

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