Friday, 17 January 2014

Ariel - the massacre man - gone

Praise for the head

Qibya Sabra & Chatila Jenin

d. Ariel Sharon 2014

May I introduce

the Prime Minister,

sage of the belly,

one of us,

warrior king for the emptied land of kings

where he plants his feet,

concrete and polished facts on the ground

straddling the sea

of terrorists and little girls with satchels.

Whoever speaks evil

against that aged man

and his top of white hair,

they’ll see no evil –

their eye irises

indefinitely detained –

Nor hear evil -

Hobbling along in

eyemasks, earmuffs, mouthtapes.

The animals are eyeless in cages,

You stacked the little girls in towns

You stalled the small boys inside a wall

concrete as the wonderful world around us.

May the sky shower down

candies and cookies

over your tireless head.


In this way we all swore the head was

a light bulb, the day of days, continuous.

Babel head. Lit up the sky. Such gratitude.

Could not imagine the following:

Popped dead, stopped dead, propped up:

Head suddenly out on its own

in out in out, day by day.

What does the head dream?

Beyond even his one bad dream,

the tremor he immediately forgot

after the first act,

the long smear on the hands

so long ago

No comments: