And now, finally, the curtain is falling on Palestine and
there will be no Palestinians left to set free, erased from history.
March of history at its cruelest, a grand tragedy foretold,
by the misprints of victims on history's canvas, painting white on grey,
to the point of oblivion.
If history was pregnant with an alternative, we may never know, only the end of line on this bus of history, with crystal clarity.
History is a bastard tree drenched in blood, always groomed by the victors, with only marginal notes by the vanquished, like so many weed to root out with sharp blades, beheading the hope of a nation.
Peace is nowhere to be found, gone for good, like an alienated neighbor travelling to distant territories, for self-preservation.
Categories:
misprints, peace,
Form: Free verse
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper - a door.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
There are other misprints,
dead birds smudged by decay
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
There is no house,
only foundation and rubble.
Sinewy weeds, bacon rinds
and other grinds
spiral among overgrown stems,
casting parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off.
He felt that a door
had ushered him through
to where the flightless flew,
a place where the world of adults
became open graves.
That night,
he looked at the naked lady,
seeing her more as a door
than any plaything.
A door
he now curiously pushed against.
Categories:
misprints, poetry,
Form: Blank verse
Wandering, looking for wonder,
clueless and shoeless machine,
travelling over and under,
here and there. My skin
made of amalgam is shining,
catches the sun and reflects
errors, misprints, underlining,
cases and spaces in texts;
characters, symbols and letters,
mountains, rivers and trees,
big and essential matters
that people face and my keys
lost out there somewhere
by an anonymous lake...
God, I will call you unfair
wonderful brilliant fake,
if omnimeaningful Logos
doesn't exist, doesn't mean.
Even if wonder is bogus,
wander, my writing machine.
One of the first English poems, if not the first one, I wrote 2-3 years ago. Still doubt if it's worth posting. Ok, let it live)
Categories:
misprints, literature,
Form: Rhyme
Wrote this before I got my current computer
I like this one. ;)
I hate my computer.
It's like a human being.
It's so full of junk and crap,
There's just no use entreating,
The thing to go faster,
Or function at all;
For it skips back and misprints,
And freezes and stalls.
I need a new one;
One no one else uses,
So it won't get filled up,
With stuff that confuses,
It's poor little micro chips,
Giggas and bites,
And it gets constipated,
With too many sites.
Perhaps come the summer,
Or Christmas, by chance,
I'll get a new one,
To make my heart dance.
For now I must struggle,
And fight with this thing.
Just the thought of it makes me,
Want to throw it and scream,
Get out of my life,
You damned machine.
'Fore I lose my religion,
And murder my screen.
Categories:
misprints, angst, computer,
Form: Quatrain