Pray

The children were made of ash.

Their voices had fallen silent, evaporated, 

and all trace of them as individuals

had been swept away in oblivion's embrace,

to become the indistinguishable dust

in which they shared their uncommon end.  

I pray those final moments of pain and fear, 

and worse, knowing they had been abandoned, 

dying alone, surrounded by fire, not love,

I pray, I pray that in those final moments

they were visited by something else

from somewhere else, something kind, 

that took them by the hand

away from that terrible place, 

leaving behind all the pain and fear, 

and all the memories of pain and fear, 

and took them somewhere else, filled 

with all the peace and love and joy

their little hearts could bear. 

We must pray. We must pray. 

We must pray to stop the screaming. 

(Written after the Rafah massacre on 26th May 2024)

Not worth it

People are so stupid. 

They think all you need to do

is open up, be vulnerable, 

confess your fears and pain, 

find a shoulder to cry on, 

let it all out, let someone in,

like someone would care,

would think for a moment

you're worth a second 

of their precious time.

What they're really saying

is all you need to do

is expose yourself to ridicule, 

expose the fundamental worthlessness,

you've spent your life concealing,

reveal the secret you have worked hard

your entire life to keep hidden,

the unalterable fact everyone taught you

before anything else you can remember, 

these same people who now expect you

to spill your guts for their amusement

once more. Why would anyone do that? 

Why would anyone worthless

think it was worth it? 

Ghost story

"There's a rational explanation for everything".

The man reassured his family. There was no ghost,

just the sound of the wind, or the faulty plumbing, 

or timber joints creaking as the house shifted its weight

to accommodate a sudden change in the weather,

joists expanding or contracting with the heat or cold.

The ghost felt sad and lonely. 

These were all perfectly adequate explanations,

except for one detail: she did exist, though now deprived

of every opportunity to manifest that existence to others

by rational alternatives that explained 

to the complete satisfaction of those she haunted

every phenomenon she was capable of evoking 

with her weak powers. 

It made sense to the sad, lonely ghost, though. 

Things had been that way while she was alive.

No-one was aware of how she truly felt. 

Feelings were attributed to her. 

People jumped to conclusions, made assumptions 

that suited their own narratives and agendas,

and she could never make herself heard

over the stories people told on her behalf.

Dog

I was a wounded animal, 

not human: a dog perhaps, 

lost, limping, weak, helpless, 

when she found me, bound my wounds,

and smiled, and held me, and cared

without expecting anything in return.

I was powerless to provide anything.

She told me I was allowed to be weak.

No-one was going to laugh at me

and mock me, and reject me.

I didn't have to pretend to be strong.

I wasn't pathetic and ridiculous. 

I was allowed to be weak. 

I still think of her sometimes, 

this woman I liked to imagine 

when I was five, and a dog. 

Footprints

One hundred millennia ago;

a layer of volcanic ash

before the rain came 

and it stiffened like cement.

Two thousand years ago; 

carved into stone on a hilltop

to mark where the king must stand

to receive the people's acclaim.

 

Fifty years ago and forever;

on the surface of the Moon.

The one we love has gone.

We live on in the silence 

of the beautiful hell

of what we did not say,

our steps together now fossils

for strangers to interpret.

The long haul

Welcome to the long haul, 

the journey without hope.

Once you marched with heroes. 

Now you walk with ghosts. 

Welcome to the long haul,

the pursuit of high ideals,

the march toward a better world

through the wreckage of the real.

Welcome to the long haul, 

and try to make some friends.

We're all on the same journey,

and the journey never ends. 

The lover

War runs his fingers through your flesh

as though it was his lover's hair, 

and for pillow talk, challenges you

to say the worst thing you can think of, 

and when you bite your lip and confess it, 

he leans in and whispers something worse. 

He finds you in the forest of your limbs, 

the delirium of the dismantled self, 

lights a fire that turns your bones to ash,

uncoils generations ravelled in your blood,

and launches his rudiment into the remains

as if he is hastily burying something 

he doesn't want found, your boudoir 

a mass grave, your genitals a crime scene, 

yet you invited him into your embrace.

You saw a part of you that had returned

you didn't remember sending into exile. 

He remembers everything, and all his lovers

are a single lover in whom he seeks oblivion.