In my 3rd lifetime or incarnation
I was once a moth,
and a velvet addict,
which started the tradition
of getting stoned in the mornings.
Which reminds me of
Operation Barbarossa,
when things got out of hand
on the eastern front,
but before they did,
imagine the flat steppe.
Flat land,
flat sky,
level plains with ankle length
flora,
and the occasional small peasant hut.
Perfect for the Nazi war machine.
They won decisive victory after decisive victory
early that summer,
but they soon realized,
that after advancing many miles for 3 weeks and choking on dust,
given the vastness of Russia
that things still looked exactly the same.
It was like being on the same stage
repeating the same scene
with the same props all the time.
It would end with them mortally wounded
on their backs
thrashing on the ground
like long tailed lizards.
I am back home
and homesick.
My soul is fried
on the outside of an Egg’s shell,
the Eurasian Steppe
which I’ve never seen
seems much more familiar.
The punishment shits the crime,
the history of the
vegetable kingdom,
a package of soft flesh
and drunken disorder.
Life shuddered and shook
and smoked and eventually
misfired
a rude protrusion
called hope,
that ends up on either the guillotine block
or becomes a smoking barrel,
triggering excess saliva in the mouth.
A stage between death
and resurrection.
Even the silent nighttime
leaves me estranged,
not even the darkness will embrace me.
Do not be disgusted by cockroaches,
try and get over the repulsion,
sit with them and talk
calmly and patiently.
You will discover they are not
very different from us,
and both parties will agree
to war or peace.
But who knows really what lurks in
the hearts and minds
of men and cockroaches?
Merry, bearded, red Santa Claus!
But I would rather put on
a nurse’s uniform,
and inject all with
the apocalypse
in small and equal doses.
Kamal Abu-Husayn is a Beirut-dwelling, Egg-worshipping Turkey. Would rather rub noses than shake hands, hates Santa, and is already weary of the next war he’ll be forced to live through, if he survives this one, of course. He sells surreal estate for a living, and managed to release a collection of poems in 2010 under the title of Bingo’s Bedtime Book, hopes to publish another volume soon: The Egg Laying Manual.