Tuesday, July 19, 2016

ashgabat 21, 22

(syrian refugees offering an airbnb experience via new-aesthetic on tumblr)

Unless rebirth has taught us other symmetry
each shadow hurls from one grown too irate.
Worlds & memes & warring systems gyrate
unmindful of our instruments’ telemetry
oblivion that would break the heart of the stoutest Druid

must surely scar its untormented cortex
& though i cruise among them in the Vortex
i feel my will to persevere more fluid
than when i was an arch Young Turk of thirty:
& when i stoop to hoist a thought-foe, i feel dirty.

Bouzingo in English

Vile Khurbn, where the maps of hist’ry don’t.
Salient fleas, called lords in the usual jargon.
Aibeu iyoh AZI AGIAR bargain
reaches us where smaller murrains won’t
& leaves like scattered water bottles each cadaver

to come. My fellow wastrels, be less thievish;
my fellow locusts, try to be less peevish.
It doesn’t end when the poet ends his palaver.
Shall we find frith within a sizzling orchard?
Shall we gain truth when the hostile witnesses are tortured?



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