Milan, July /
(you may want to turn your phone to horizontal mode for this one)
It's just me and the silly soft, feathery clouds,
like a pillow undone on the backdrop of night:
not a star to be seen and my feet feel the wet
of the balcony tiles. Rain has brought some respite
to this city that's stuck on the plain — like a shot
in a sling — between mountains and mountains, and on-
ly the East is a vent to the sea (and to Ve-
nice), the rest is too steep for the heat to move on.
On then!
Rise to the wind like a silvery sail,
pierce your back with this moonlight,
fall home with the dust,
drive your comet to fiery endings,
shrug dragonly scales — eat the Earth
to the fullest, to crispiest crust.
(And a happy birthday to me 🥮)
@verse by MR
(you may want to turn your phone to horizontal mode for this one)
It's just me and the silly soft, feathery clouds,
like a pillow undone on the backdrop of night:
not a star to be seen and my feet feel the wet
of the balcony tiles. Rain has brought some respite
to this city that's stuck on the plain — like a shot
in a sling — between mountains and mountains, and on-
ly the East is a vent to the sea (and to Ve-
nice), the rest is too steep for the heat to move on.
On then!
Rise to the wind like a silvery sail,
pierce your back with this moonlight,
fall home with the dust,
drive your comet to fiery endings,
shrug dragonly scales — eat the Earth
to the fullest, to crispiest crust.
(And a happy birthday to me 🥮)
@verse by MR
Swallows in flight /
Hurtling back-first
into the morning
of another day and
soon – another sky.
The airport express,
a bullet train to hit
the scaleless sides
of lightweight metal
flagons – waiting,
wings outstretched
upon a field of
anything but field
to swallow up
my bags, my me
and jet lost, thankfully,
like anything but swallow.
@verse by MR
Hurtling back-first
into the morning
of another day and
soon – another sky.
The airport express,
a bullet train to hit
the scaleless sides
of lightweight metal
flagons – waiting,
wings outstretched
upon a field of
anything but field
to swallow up
my bags, my me
and jet lost, thankfully,
like anything but swallow.
@verse by MR
Uncomfortable wonders /
If you knew you were one of the few
who could practice the art of
necromancy – raise undead
with the magic of blood,
bone and grave dust –
would you dare to do it?
Or would you pretend
to remain in the world of the “normal” –
and do what mundane stuff
you normally would?
@verse by MR
If you knew you were one of the few
who could practice the art of
necromancy – raise undead
with the magic of blood,
bone and grave dust –
would you dare to do it?
Or would you pretend
to remain in the world of the “normal” –
and do what mundane stuff
you normally would?
@verse by MR
Tropic of Concert /
The Caribbean night
attacks with sound
from every quarter –
from the patter of the rain,
to the cicadas’ whistling
altos (you would think
they’d take a cheque,
the weather being…)
to the backbeat
of the sea’s insisting
check-ins, wave upon wave,
a pause, another wave.
I’m waiting. Might the next one
break this night’s
reluctance to tuck in?
@verse by MR
The Caribbean night
attacks with sound
from every quarter –
from the patter of the rain,
to the cicadas’ whistling
altos (you would think
they’d take a cheque,
the weather being…)
to the backbeat
of the sea’s insisting
check-ins, wave upon wave,
a pause, another wave.
I’m waiting. Might the next one
break this night’s
reluctance to tuck in?
@verse by MR
An account of my father /
I have no demons,
save for those
with horns of plush.
Nobody hit me,
and my father
walked out gently:
took me months,
to notice that
his gradual withdrawal
was complete.
We stayed in touch
over much email,
up until my girlfriends
took away all bandwidth
(at about 15). He got me
residence in Canada,
I moved, we saw
each other sometimes,
he became a
grandfather (another
duty to abandon
10 years in). I left
the country, lost
my residence to greener
pastures (walking out
on him?). The pastures
turned to sands,
if greener than before.
More years passed —
then he disappeared,
six months ago.
Today his Telegram
account got wiped.
A silent well of email
is all that's left for
my unanswered stones.
@verse by MR
I have no demons,
save for those
with horns of plush.
Nobody hit me,
and my father
walked out gently:
took me months,
to notice that
his gradual withdrawal
was complete.
We stayed in touch
over much email,
up until my girlfriends
took away all bandwidth
(at about 15). He got me
residence in Canada,
I moved, we saw
each other sometimes,
he became a
grandfather (another
duty to abandon
10 years in). I left
the country, lost
my residence to greener
pastures (walking out
on him?). The pastures
turned to sands,
if greener than before.
More years passed —
then he disappeared,
six months ago.
Today his Telegram
account got wiped.
A silent well of email
is all that's left for
my unanswered stones.
@verse by MR
The thing about clouds /
I used to write a lot
about my clouds –
one language and
two continents ago.
Their snowy march
across my spring
was proud, like
arching backs
on certain beds, and so
seemed future paths which,
back then, flowed ahead.
My cloud processions
led the way a while
and yet, no cloud’s reliable –
they fled to leave behind
a new life:
new apartment, empty skies,
save for a haze of sand
on the horizon, and the rising
heat of January’s end.
A “cloud”? In this Dubai,
it’s but the tenth time
that I squeeze the word
into a poem – Boeings
paint my skies with
semblances of these,
not saturnine enough
to prove the mantra
still holds true:
whatever you might think,
whatever you might do,
the clouds above you move.
@verse by MR
I used to write a lot
about my clouds –
one language and
two continents ago.
Their snowy march
across my spring
was proud, like
arching backs
on certain beds, and so
seemed future paths which,
back then, flowed ahead.
My cloud processions
led the way a while
and yet, no cloud’s reliable –
they fled to leave behind
a new life:
new apartment, empty skies,
save for a haze of sand
on the horizon, and the rising
heat of January’s end.
A “cloud”? In this Dubai,
it’s but the tenth time
that I squeeze the word
into a poem – Boeings
paint my skies with
semblances of these,
not saturnine enough
to prove the mantra
still holds true:
whatever you might think,
whatever you might do,
the clouds above you move.
@verse by MR
A journey from pain to health in 8 poems, with thanks to everyone involved — and a warning to anyone working behind a screen.
https://telegra.ph/There-and-Neck-Again-in-8-Poems-03-04
@verse by MR
https://telegra.ph/There-and-Neck-Again-in-8-Poems-03-04
@verse by MR
Telegraph
There and Neck Again (in 9 Poems)
To the rest of you, who definitely need motivation to improve your working environments (at least get a laptop stand and never work from a couch). TLDR here. / 1. Joke's on us / I don't have faith. I couldn't ask the God residing in this mosque to take away…
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Ocean Local (sound on 🔈)
It was never about an actual train. I wrote this on a beach, watching the surf line (so yes, no typos here), and thinking of the subway at best – not the mighty Shinkansen. Yet, here it is now: a bridge between a bullet-train at Kyoto station and an Antiguan sunset, both shot last year.
@verse by MR
It was never about an actual train. I wrote this on a beach, watching the surf line (so yes, no typos here), and thinking of the subway at best – not the mighty Shinkansen. Yet, here it is now: a bridge between a bullet-train at Kyoto station and an Antiguan sunset, both shot last year.
@verse by MR
Machine Teaching /
The helpless AI-God
flips through a trillion answers
to a prayer: would these bits
of recipes, a sutra and a thesis —
shaken, stirred — provide relief?
A sense of unity? A reason
to be good? He jerry-rigs
Commandments with the
abandon of a blind
photographer, six-fingered
moral compass spinning on.
@verse by MR
The helpless AI-God
flips through a trillion answers
to a prayer: would these bits
of recipes, a sutra and a thesis —
shaken, stirred — provide relief?
A sense of unity? A reason
to be good? He jerry-rigs
Commandments with the
abandon of a blind
photographer, six-fingered
moral compass spinning on.
@verse by MR
This too /
And every war will end,
if only when no people
have remained for dying.
Every refuge will become
a home – if just because
you’ve finished drying
bedsheets, freshly washed,
the seven-hundredth time.
And every pang of pain
will stay a memory, but fade
as you stop crying
until it's bleached out
like those ads in long-
abandoned stores.
@verse by MR
And every war will end,
if only when no people
have remained for dying.
Every refuge will become
a home – if just because
you’ve finished drying
bedsheets, freshly washed,
the seven-hundredth time.
And every pang of pain
will stay a memory, but fade
as you stop crying
until it's bleached out
like those ads in long-
abandoned stores.
@verse by MR