Sods of Sodomy

Stuck in the abominable haze
of a tumbling crowd, I graze
Empty hands of passers-by,
And Lick their inner throats,
Those so sudden how dry.

Suddenly I saw the sod only,
The Earth had lain down to cry,
Lonely lamentations lying on lanes, lying to each other long
on the longitudinal leniency of lyrical lines of poetry.

But beneath the earth the snake was sliding,
Seven miles circling the
hellish Circus.
Clowns, bearded ladies, homosexuals, wire walkers,
a lot of brandy, rum for the balancing act,
and a lady.

A Lady,
alone in the dim light of the back room rehearsing her routine, her black gown a fictive illusion deluding you that she is real. You want to touch her and she dances. The snake slithers. Her stockings separate and curve. She is the soul of the Circus. The dim light is warm, reflecting on her bronze skin. The wings of her eyes flutter sensuously down to her loose lips, and send you in a trance of reaching, reaching… . Come closer, insert your 20$ bill in the crack of her gown. Come! Let your eyes stray on the curve of her bended buttocks benumbing you into being, as you graze her full breasts with the tip of your fingers. Do you feel alive? You are dead. Let her infuse you with life. Let her help you find God. Insert your 20$ bill. Can you feel your fingers graze the top of her milky skin? Picture yourself falling in the crack of her pointy breasts, down, down… till you reach the warmth of her lips. Wet warm leaking liquid lips; the sanctuary of her legs. Her legs are long; seven miles.
Her legs are lonely lamentations,
longitudinal leniency,
lyrical lines of poetry.
Her legs are spread lanes for you to lie on, to lie to…
Sodom and Gomorrah,
Sods of sodomy the Earth laid down,
Mass hysteria!
The Clowns laugh,
The knife throwers chop each other’s heads,
The Clowns laugh,
The jugglers giggle gaily juggling the empty jugs of human heads,
The Clowns laugh,
The Homosexual curse descends upon the angelic women of the crowd,
The Clowns laugh,
The wire walker patriarch hangs himself from his wire,
The drunk woman from the balancing act climbs, spreads her legs and loses her virginity to the dead stiff cock of the hanging man,
The Director in the last row masturbates to the revelation of his creation,
Little children crawl out of the virgin woman’s entrails,
The crowd screams in bewilderment,
The clowns laugh,
Men kill the children and cook them in the saucy blood of the virgin –
Feed the masses!
The crowd bows down in worship.
The Clowns laugh,
The Director orgasms and the Great Flood drowns the theatre.

A hush came over the lanes of the land;
the longitudinal lyrical lines of the seats,
The poet slept in the back gratified,
waiting for his seeds to sprout, In the distance could be
heard the faint memory of poetry –
Two clowns were laughing.

White Tops, Handbags and Itchy Balls

She will die in a long, tight, black skirt (or a short one) and a white top behind a desk (behind or in front – depends how you look at it). Either way, her stance at the moment of death will be that of service.

Somewhere else, a girl in a bathroom opens her handbag and takes out a fresh tampon and a nylon bag to put the old tampon in it. Then she pulls down her pants.

The smell that it emits (supposedly) is pictured (and smelt) by a young boy in another part of the universe. His chest pumps to inhale the odor of his limp, sweaty penis as he touches it and thinks of the theoretical ecstasy of a vagina.

His brother in the next room is correcting the syntactic mistakes of a girl on WhatsApp who couldn’t care less about them because she cared much more for poetry.
Meanwhile, his sister is studying by the T.V. in the living room. Her momma is there too, watching Bollywood (momma’s daughter is the eldest, aged 24).

Three (or four) towns later, a man takes his time with the final steps of his daily work-routine. He was feeling enthusiasm (a huge lack of it)  for seeing his wife.

The girl pulls up her pants over the new tampon, adjusts her handbag, checks herself a final time, walks out of the toilet booth, fixes her lipstick in the mirror, sighs, and goes out to pick a cab.

The young boy from the other part of the universe, still scratching his itchy penis (as discreetly as possible), starts walking to his car and thinks about the futility of being discreet because there are only men in the street, all of whom are Syrian laborers (being Lebanese, he was supposed to find Syrians filthy).

The man from three towns away opens the door to his house after checking the smell of his breath; he had just smoked his usual secret cigarette. He smiles mildly and says nothing.
The wife instantly turns her head away from Bollywood and utters “well, hello!” in a look-who-finally-decided-to-show-up tone, and the husband says “hullo” extending his smile.

The girl in a white top and a black skirt types on her laptop, tucked in her sofa.

A cab driver spits (again), lights another cigarette and goes back to his job: “Taxi?”

The girl with the new tampon (“Starbucks?”) hops in and stares out of the window. (She sits in the back seat -girls do that when they’re not planning to get raped).

The grammar Nazi brother is still typing on WhatsApp. He is sitting at a table in the corner of Starbucks, waiting. He thinks: “This is gonna cost me. I hope she knows how to pull down her pants.”

The young boy from the other part of the universe parks, takes the elevator, goes up to the second floor, knocks, walks in as the door opens, and sits by the laptop on the sofa, lustfully staring at the thighs next to him.

The girl in the white top and the black skirt goes on typing on her laptop, pretending to be oblivious of the lustful best friend next to her.

The girl with the fresh tampon gets to Starbucks and sits, poetically, by the brother of the young boy. Moments later, she excuses herself. She goes to the WC and pulls her pants down after finding the nylon bag and the tampons in her handbag.

The cab driver spits again, lights another cigarette and goes back to his job.

The brother keeps typing.

The young boy scratches his balls discreetly, staring at her thighs.

The girl in the white top and the black skirt keeps on typing.