Qasidah to a Bani Papier Bag

Great, tufts of cottoned graphite curl and contort,

above mine form, illuminating soft and distort,

A gentle red, from the eyes of beaming brake lights that howl and cut short,

By the grand rumbles of a mighty smith, striking the yellow inferno in a distort

Of softened steel, And the air is fresh with the smell of his smithery (1); mort & mort.

And with each strike my black pen skates with blue ink across the dim and yellow

Aged paper. Wrinkled and scrunched like the fellow,

With whom I share my holdings, and his eyes burn orange like the smiths forge,

For an endless want for understanding (2); with an urge far from mellow.

And we sit together in our silent pack, both in search of the words to retort.

...

Forlorn, a pink and bashful forlorn.

I have sworn, I have sworn

To give him voice, to keep warm

And yet I write, forlorn - forlorn.

Yet I will never abandon the brown, oaken fort.

…

There I have found my essence, there I have found my mould.

What lies in my red, red heart is the stage in which the silenced are beheld.

And my pen scratches with veracity, tears at the yellowed and frail papers of my heart; cold.

Yelling in the voice of the boy in a pink dress who hides in his room from scold (3).

I am the lady in the blue, drapes that cover her form (4), I am the aged green hue of a tattooed man that sits in court.

I am the tainted red of the wheel guards of shopping carts in which the tattered man makes home

I am the voice of my brother, whose brown and solemn eyes huff to make words of his own.

I am the excited and colourful syllables within each word. The letters here known

Of each space (5), of each black letter (6). And in space un-shown.(7)

And it is their tears I wish to thwart.

Yet first I need to show you whom I am, and where I hold.

Between each white pixel of this screen I'm sold.

In the blue, and red and green of this coloured screen I grow old.

And in the moving of your pinkend lips to these words, and in the dim grey of a winter cold

I shall plead to you my purpose, to give words to those without a fort.

1.

Ribbon, like the laces of ballerinas flutter with a blinding purple brilliance.

Tearing open the stained graphite sky to expose the glow

Of a tempered blade, sharp in the reaping of justice.

Never needing the taste of crimson droplets.

2.

The ferocious and bloody plea of purple clenched fists,

A yearn to speak and still amiss,

An array of words like fractions of stained glass in his grip,

Bleed him, left with nothing but a few quips

From the three toned buzz of movie clips.

Yet those words can only hold so much.

And he cries out for more.

3.

I am the deafening screams of the blacked and blue, bruised silent,

My pen scratches the paper with the contempt and rage of those closeted until

The blood in my veins turns violet.

I trickle my page with the salt ridden rivers that run blue down their form.

Hark! their tears are on my cheek.

And my pen dances into the darkened night.

4.

And I listen to the blue and mournful hue,

Of the prayers and whispers that lie in my view,

The red words of ‘rahmatu’

Cry in the purple shallows of a low orison. Mort & mort

5.

Gaze into the cold tinted tone of your whitened computer screen.

One block of homogenous white,

four million pixels, each in lapse of blood, cobalt and grass.

Each bound and clad to each other,

Each divided by walls invisible to your eyes;

Tears at mine, eats away.

Forlorn the barriers of colour.

For they are there nonetheless.

6.

For the black and meaningless letters,

When combined together,

Form an array of pleasures

More brilliant than that of the sistine chapel.

7.

For the unshown, are uncoloured,

And they’re named by the dullard,

To fit blurred in the course of history.

Sitting silently on the browned borders of each page.

And my eyes wide, tainted in the same brown hue

of wet paper bags that excitedly stroll down darkened alleyways.

Finds beauty in the complex mundane.