Monthly Archives: July 2014

to the Literary Bureaucracy (poem)

you interrupt god
and you allow the chatter of winter mermaids 
their unearned triumph
triumph should be earned, 
I want to earn my death, one that is perfectly mine, 

so little is completely mine, maybe only my poems until

bureaucracy puts them in its mouth for a wine tasting

and says ”we absolutely cannot use this,

we need vinegar

for our American salad”

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poem haj poem today

not alone, not at all
my brother is the misunderstood carrier

of the cosmic knife
my brother: the chivalrous,  mercy-bringer
vilified as executioner

by  afraid villagers,  they expect to live forever,

they want to sleep with the famous and to vote for absolute evil

in the elections of the continent of good ideas

they throw the dead at each other

like clay

like a drunk girl throws a plastic cup, across the lake

hoping to beat the reflection of the moon

and the disappointed illusion she once had about swans:

she thought swans don’t bark across the tundra

and swanhood is democratically attained.

and her throw succeeds,

her pitch perfect

but to what end?

the ugly want to be independent swans of the wadi

the academics want to beat the voices of the diwan

Jamshid’s cup cannot be made of recycled paper

no competition is desired against the moon and her light

of her nakedness oh Nour Al Kamra rasul allah


My sister is the muse, my lover yet another muse, and also my sister
my mother
the desert,
my only mother

and never breathe an oxymoron like father-land
never utter that lie, hateful toxic as frangipani grapes, they grow in desert islands too

my brother: the famished hoodlum waits just around the corner
his leg extended hoping to trip up a somnambulant
dreams are hoodlums, they break in to rob in the midday

they wear thin muslin over their eyes and see through it,

pretending to be pitiful blind men waiting by the traffic light by the lantern bright and useless

Somnambulants, at times, are unsuspecting

I am the son of Hajar, fed on Hajar’s milk

her mouth was parched then

the dietary law

forbade she drink of her own milk

her mouth was a prison then

like the most vast and worst prisons, open


We were once a Zoroastrian family circus,

the others died, I am the only survivor
and learned to drink from the sea, while letting the salt and death drop out the other end of my mouth and ear

technique, hard work, skills
neither a miracle nor gratitude
not an especially adept tongue
that refined what I licked up from hands just wading
here by the innocent wadi:
a desalination plant, the size of ten tears
was hidden in a point,
vowel-coordinate just above and behind my  second lung
next to a persecutor that propels me somnambulant
to look for more water, for night-miasmas
for fish for my mother Hajar’s medulla at night


Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.


~~(poemhaj  by Arturo Desimone

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Against all Exorcisms

FOR An art with demons against an art of sublimation


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July 2, 2014 · 8:34 am