Saturday, 12 November 2011


Corriente de aire de nacimiento reciente,
Viento jóven que juega con mi ser.

¿Dónde estabas tú hace unos momentos?
¿De dónde sales tú, niño viento?

Ahora me sacudes, mis ramas meces,
Ahora empujas y me guías al crecer.

¿Has estado conmigo siempre?
Moldeandome aunque no fuese consciente.

¿O eres solo un fenómeno reciente?
Una cosa joven, dulce, incipiente.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

I sometimes wonder why people wear roman torture devices cast in silver around their necks. Why they protect themselves with symbols of water on their foreheads, and why they wait for hours during a smotheringly sunny day in a crowded street for the pleasure of seeing something sacred, a golden virgin that probably appears every year at the same date and time, carried by six or eight people who are also there to believe. I think of this at night lying in bed, and then, when I see unknown things in the dark I draw exes on my face and chest with my fingertips.

Monday, 1 August 2011


They hid the truth, in 1982.
Nothing on the news, then it was late.

Today history repeats,

Wheelspokes revolve, as the tanks roll in.

Now rumors escape the dishonest regime,
Drawing water from a river, the wheels keep on rolling.

"Hm... yes... a man holds the fate of the world in his two hands, and yet, simply because he is afraid, he just lets things drift- that is a truism... I wonder what men are most afraid of... Any new departure, and especially a new word- that is what they fear most of all... But I am talking too much. That is why I don't act, because I am always talking. Or perhaps I talk so much just because I can't act. I have got into a habit of babbling to myself during this last month, while I have been lying into a corner for days on end, thinking... fantastic nonsense. And why have I come out now? Can I really be capable of that? Am I really serious? No, of course I'm not serious. So I am just amusing myself with fancies, children's games? Yes, perhaps I am only playing a game."

-Fedor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

Friday, 29 July 2011

I turned back

Today I stood,
At the edge of the world.
I've yet to see anyone fall...

But dead winds roar
The ground is slick,
And water wets the floor.
I stared at an ocean's black,
Thicker than I've seen before;

I could have swiftly swum, or sunk.
But my stomach churned, my gut went soft
And my brain began to thump,
My thoughts bled into the water,
But I pumped them back,
And of that, I thought no more.

Today I walked, right to the edge,
And dipped my toes quick in the shore;

I turned back, I turned back.

Monday, 25 July 2011

La Gran Ciudad

Edificios dorados al atardecer
Brillan como luz reflejada sobre el mar.
El extranjero contempla su Inmensidad;
Un paraje temporal, nunca un Hogar.

La ciudad lo alberga, gigante.
Lo abrazan sus cadenas de calles,
Lo asfixian con su ruido, su humo contundente,
y lo integran en su silueta sobre el Rio y sus caudales.

Los edificios celebran la unión,
Ventanales brillantes que arrojan sus destellos
Sobre la pareja como arroz.
Las paredes se pintan para la fiesta con aerosol.

El extranjero raptado intenta huir,
Pero es demasiado grande la Inmensidad.
Tiene leves recuerdos de alguna vez
Haber tenido otro Hogar.

Y los árboles exóticos se ponen a luchar,
Alzan sus ramas e inician la destrucción.
El extranjero corre sin poder escapar,
Sin tener un lugar donde descansar

Hasta que recuerda que existe el avión,
Y un aeropuerto donde lo puede tomar.
Armado con su pasaporte se lanza a volar,
Pliega sus alas buscando una nueva nación.

De mientras, la ciudad se pone a llorar.
El río inunda los cordones de sus calles.
La pintura de sus edificios se corre con la humedad.
El sol ilumina sus solares baldios como pequeños valles

Y la ciudad alarga su tentáculo,
Buscando al fugitivo con los días de compás.
Intentando invitar al extranjero
Se expande cada día un poco más.

Thursday, 5 May 2011

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915 (WWI)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Thursday, 21 April 2011


Allah ou akbar. People chant, they cheer;
Feet ricochet off the surface of the street,
Vibrations in a hopeful atmosphere.
Tonight we fight. We will never retreat.

Then the guns vomit their own petty rant,
And the songs we sung turn to children's screams.
We scatter, some fall flat onto pavement.
Now shattered, nightmares, for some finished dreams.

The shoreline's tainted with the colour red,
The darkened streets lie heavy and silent.
We won't dream tonight of those who are dead
Our sleep so still, uneasy and violent,

But that soft girl who was shrieking, she's seen the pain.
She dreams, for she sees what we have to gain.

Dedicated to Latakya. I spent many years of my childhood on the beach in this seaside town, with my family, swimming, sandcastles, etcetera; I remember it fondly. On the 18th a peaceful protest against Bashar's regime was silenced by the harsh speech of gunfire.
You can see the video here.
This is the single most shocking video I have seen on the internet. It gave me nightmares. And I just had to dedicate some writing to this.
All my best to the Syrian people.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

You can have your cake and eat it too, until someone realises you've had too much cake.

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Sun floods your eyes, as cold pierces my bones.
You lay staring at me. You, there, throwing stones,
Was that a glint of emotion that sleepily shone?
Were you just waiting there 'til I was gone.

This probably ended before it'd begun;
I wonder if its time was done
While I was up in the clouds, my dreams on the run;
Then I forgot the sullen, sweltering sun.

You may think the breeze is warm,
As the air caresses your face.
Worms squirm through me in swarms,
Just feel frost's cold embrace.

While my face goes numb in the winter air,
My flesh rots, my features fall off in despair.
My eyelashes burn in the aloofness of your glare.

You, you let the sun shine off your hair.

Sunday, 23 January 2011

Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man
Night after night, we pretend it's all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun anymore.

And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel, cold as a razor blade
Tight as a tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum,
Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left
You'll find my favourite axe
Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase
Just one of my bad days
Would you like to watch T.V.?
Or get between the sheets?
Or contemplate the silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops.
Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away?

Friday, 7 January 2011

I lay wondering if I would sleep and if I could
When an angel came and brought me to a barren wood;
It spoke to me of God's great war and its high stakes,
Suddenly I lay in bed, shuddering and wide awake.