Santa Claus


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


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


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.