Saturday, November 29, 2014

The King's Rock

Our  nethermost region.

Kay Hassan

 Stately, with all his passions  under a mighty  rock,
Likewise, oft in all his wars had shed his blood
It was the to miracle of his seven labours
That has never been sung with:
 Daf, drum, flute and dulcimer

Nevertheless, he was a man of  his trade
Had never played with  the shadows of  Word
 Rebounded   or bragged like the heights lord 
But , like the  sibling-of the mighty rock  
Stuck bravely to the heart of the faith
But, the  emperors  guards has  reached him-
 in his blood soaked sanctum
Riding- with long rifles and swords
"Ready ?" They shouted nearby,
And  galloped through the tearing winds,   
 Composing songs for their uncrowned King

A thousand hearts cracked, or shredded 
on the oak covered giant rocks
 the tears fell upon the nethermost garden
Where the.enchanted  souls were
floating   across the sacred  red valleys- 
 with perpetual uproar , and climbing  the rocks-  
Departing through the meandering roads to exile.  

Years, are messing  up day by night 
His shelter, lionized, like the Dome of the rock.
Exposed to dust and rain, 
 acquired the  fame in the waste,
 Like a giant brain of West    
The empire times, turmoil-ed  over years
And  awakened  him for another round.

'Alas,' we screamed, after a ninety years 
When for  the taste  of Mongols'  Paper* ,
The prides of the heights' lords scattered 
Upon the dwindling of -king's rock's-chemistry  

Chieftains sat on their eggs,*
 Loosely, dangled  their legs
From the thousand  sides of the rock,
 Smoking-in a chattering mood.
"Hey,”  unto the their clapping folks
say the chieftains of many
“May I ask the historian one question?
 How many chieftains and men of glory
have dangled their legs down- 
From the  to of the king's rock

Brothers, there is no a stranger  among us
in this  valley.
 I say 'History  is tongueless, 
but certainly,. I am not'
To all who set eyes on the treasures, and land ,
The sermon  is done 
we are done. 

The last chieftain has died in January 
Cursed  in his frosted  bed. 
His  face was frozen                                             
 like the eyes of shark
Failing  to  catch  the din of the crowd
and Vicar's sermon on the king's coffin
A voice whispered 
"Beware of the dogs' bark.
Beware of your brothers'  bark."
*Paper: Cash; Mongols introduced the world to the Chinese Note.
* Testicle.

Monday, November 17, 2014


Kay Hassan

Across the quiet avenue,
 Opposite to our house,
On the  east side of the hill ,
Forever, lived Adam and Eve,
Neither were breeds of Paradise,
Nor once walked across the hell

They were so filled with  years,
That, the dreary time of  the great war
For them.
Was just a boring detour in the way
And  the  vulgar rabbit stalking day
Was the politicians U- turn in dismay

Their success was a son in reward  ,
Grew up within the national  standard,
And their  failure was a son   with seizure,
Drowned, into the Hawkesbury  river 

Eve drove her manual car
To see doctors, podiatrists 
or buy new goods from her grocer
Adams dress , was in a perfect fit
Neat and  tidy like his tools' kit. (He was a retired electrician.)
He rode on his bike, and
Toured the neighborhood,  
Or walked  miles on his feet ,
Until someday  he lost the track ,
And could nt find his way back
He  kept asking passers-by ,
 “ For Gods sake, it is too late
Where is Adams parlor, mate ?”

Eve searched  streets and shops
But was forced to call the Cops
Who found him walking on the railway
Somewhere a thousand miles away.

At his rock  bottom  and worse,
Adam lost his life's course,
And among-st  his  daily dismay
 succumbed to the mental decay,,
On other hand; they said  God forbid
For having  a very  weak  grip
Eve slipped on the stairs’ top step
And was found with a  Broken hip,
And some fracture in her rib

And a breast cancer survivor,
God help ye,” said her grieve
And nodded  to her to fill
The fields of  patients relief
In response,  cynically,
She released her last jock
“God, find somewhere else
 to tie up on your rein -less horse.”

She stayed in waed, for so long
That, Adam in his new hermitage
 Melted down into a new love.
 And  was intrigued by a new Eve,

Up a little in fantasy ,
And a bit of  audacity
He introduced Eve to Emma  , 
“This is Emma…This mamma,  
Hi  Cain , Hi  Abel,”  ( Abel was his dead son)
Says Adam to please them
No Adam , this is  Aaron
Our beloved   grandson
 Abel is dead, Abel had  gone,  ”
Said Eve in a great groan.

Your grandson, not mine, mamma,
Make sure and ask my wife  Emma,”

(Eve’s son Cain  got Aaron, and Diana from his ex- wife who  kicks  Aaron out and keeps Diana with her. Diana  is seventeen, and Aaron is sixteen  .. Cains  second wife refuses to let Aaron in with her children, because Aaron got seizure. Cain brings Aaron to live with his mother Eve. I say “Eve.  Most often, I see Aaron play around.  She  laughs and says. ‘His mother is a whore.'  
I say. ‘Whore is not a swear word , ma’am.”
She says. “I won’t swear, man.”

 Eve  trades  her manual car with a  brand new one. We  have to keep eyes  on her. She will drive to the shops and see her doctor and take Aaron to school, however, she tell her nurse. 'I am not anyones concern, anymore.')

(“Hey, it is too early, Eve,”  I say .
“You think you are a wise man, ain't you?” says she
“No you have taught me how to screw the wisdom.” 
“So you want to learn how to die, don’t you?”
“Right.” I say. “I won’t play with words.”
“Then watch me, moron, You don't need words, ” says she.)

Today when Eve came home.
She nodded to Liz’s dog Tom,
Smiled she and burst into tears
To show the dog and me
How the bittersweet of years
Makes out of us frames of toys,
She, yelled and sighed,  
And cursed  her doctors
To teach the dog and me
The rage, when the body
 Out of order and  joy
“Ay. It is a big blow, boys.”

(I understand her time is coming someday, and I look for many words to say, but the dog  barks to blow his  magnificent words- rhymed  with ; Not-now. Not yet.)
*22/07/ 2015
Adam  has  just died ....
We are sad.

Eve  donates  Adam's cloths...

Tuesday, November 04, 2014


Kay Hassan

Oh,chieftains;  semi gods
Of Highlanders,
With the  tittle: Amir Akhur*
For having been  skilled,
 In the stables  of:
And Turk-ia-  ,

You, are vile,
vassal ,

Stop somewhere, graceless beasts,
And take pride in being- highlanders -
They are  usual members,
In the club of  our  Globe
Oh, chieftains; semi gods
Of Highlanders,
If have not been schooled, yet,
Or deny   the pride of your  folk;
Here is the School of Kobane 

* Amir Akur, literally means prince of manger or trough. It was a Medieval - Persian tittle given to the managers of animal stables .-It became  a high management post during the rule  of  Sultans and  Mamaleek  in Egyptian .

Friday, October 31, 2014


On the Lord's  altar,
For many hidden stories.
Reduce the God's  word,
 Into tears and dread.
Make ashes and tombstones
 Out of my followers' souls ,
And I am certain
Yet you believe in me,
And  for all  my lies ,
Never say. "Why"

Kay Hassan

Friday, October 17, 2014


Kay Hassan

Darker than  the dead of the night
Onyx  like - the stone of  the height.
Silhouetted  against the summer  light
shoulder to shoulder, raced  the  wind
And in the memories of the  highlanders,
No one had seen braver than her
As thunders are to clouds
-Black  and her holy  knight,
Were to the darkness of the height .

Despite the cracks of those  cruel  demons
Who  acted  akin to the tail wagging the dog
Black was forever on the move,
Came  and went with the brightest  moon
And  rived the light like a divine harpoon

Stately, someday,  Black’s  lord,
 Died with A LITTLE VERBAL  Will:
‘ Wake on my grave for three nights, boys.’
Fatima , the maid who cared for  Black.,
Was to her a twin to twin,
Startled in  the middle of  her dream,
When the smokes of the watch-fire
stretched away like a steady  scream
Fatima  was   woken up , and ran out
 Dazzled though  by  a  siren like shout.,
 Cried in her native language ;
  ANFALA’EST , ANFAL*…                            
Fatima  knew the word  in a religion must
 Is  a   metaphor  for  every kind of rape.
‘Alas,’  gasped  she and shouted..
 ‘ Black…Black …Black,
My  dearest sister, Black .”


Fatima the damsel  of  the old house,
  climbed the hill of the Gottesacker,
Where through the villagers  fled,
And  the  Height’s fighters - in dread ,
 Had   given  the ground very early ,
Escaped the battle. (Eagle like surely.)
Fatima knew none of her lord’s boys
Would be  giving up his joys
And waking on his father’s    shrine
But  for her duties ,(Fatima) was certain
 Black would …
Without dropping  to her a line   ….
She hugged her in  a great fear,
“ Sister,“ yelled she. “Lets run, dear .”
Black nodded with tearing eyes,
Through a bunch  of whinnies and   neighs
Though she  did not speak  horses’  language,
 In what  her  sister  had   just uttered,
Fatima  perceived , the horse’s courage
Was the  ultimate  honor of the black steed
“Regret me not if  I  forced you to  decline ‘
‘Flee you won’t make a good concubine,’
“ Black !” Fatima  too, cried .
” For   God‘s sake, sister, flee.”
Black forgot how to neigh,
Denying , to be an easy prey
Plied her vocal  cords  to play
 A big  melody for her last day
“ Oh beautiful daughters of  Highland,
 Remember my gallops, and sleight of hand
Softness, agility and  wind like beauty
And all things of  my foremost - duty  .’
I won’t flee this battlefield ,  girls ,
Even if was not through  my entire course,
A descendant   of any  great horse.”


We left our lands for the  devils,
 Who flattened houses, men and fields
To sing  “We are storms  we are lions.’
And then, the time passed  so  slowly,
That  the snow covered the whole  heights,
Before even hit the first winter’s nights
But, nevertheless, no one since the day,.
 Saw Fatima sewing behind the window
Or   Black galloping  in the meadow.
 ( Anfal :  The Act of  Looting  and Killing   Which is  Legitimately  practiced by Muslims. )
Black,  absolutely, truly , really- indeed  was one of our horses, died  fifty years ago.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

To Marx

To Marx with respect.: I wrote this, while I was working  at  a construction site
and felt there is no  insult worse  than saying .'YOU HAVE NOTHING TO  LOOSE..' 

Oh, Good Man  hey...  good man, hey,
My sibling in anarchism,
I am  a universal beast,
 laden  with the wrath of a thousand gods
And synopsis of  prophets’  hatred biography  ,
Breathing  Poseidon’s  poison,
Down  the  Celestial  of the Twelve Olympians
To where   you  stand now with a hose of words
To  quench   dreams by  dreams
By such  un-rhymed  terrestrial poems .

You were a  good rhymester , kid,
Lost your  track  earlier middle giant books,
Or under the weight of  your friends’ humiliating fund,
Though you  never  felt of its pain,

You  never have done any work,. “ But  had right in other's property .”
Or  had a little joy in apprenticeship,
To learn   what  laborers’ loss   might mean

Would you  raise a triumphant sign
Somewhere  to deliver the  coup de grace?
The giant  corpse you saw is still  living
And won't fit your metaphoric pit
 For having  lacked the skills of digging-art

Confess, good man, I dare to say,
'You have  never -- looked
 Into the depth of  such  a  pit.'

Tuesday, October 07, 2014

The Dwindling Empires

Kay Hassan

Let me  go , we’re  barbarians ,
Not real  subjects  of  your terrains
Behold  how thy cities are  bleeding ,
And the  empires are  dwindling
Breaking down into money-dust
While, under the cities' shelters ;
 The Bohemian wanderers
Unto  genies whisper
‘Besmila.’ *  
Money is  man,
Man is a bank account.
'I am horrified.'
 ‘Besmila .’

Tongue-less, chocked  sighs,
 Barefacedly,  turning blind eyes,
To the threats of the price.

Man of    one-way , bro
Is easy come, easy go,
 Let him go, he is a bastard
Let him go  he is a barbarian

"I am the emperor of all  concerns"!
Concerns?  You have not any! Your Majesty,
Money is a menial pursuitThy empires are dwindling
And thy subjects turning into  money
The menial pursuit  is Man ,
Man is a string of number in  the local bank.
With  none of Socratic concerns.

*“Besmila :  From Qumran via the Bohemian Rhapsody. Literally,  means.'In the name of God.'”

Saturday, September 27, 2014


Waters of  seven springs
Flowed for  so many  years,
And never came to a halt,
They rushed  marvelously, churning,
  Against the rocks and roots ,
Running anxiously  to our water fall
Sweet , turbulent;
 Brighter than  ghostly beetles.
Crushing  into the purest  foams  ,
To mirror,  for a moment,
 The cold rays  of  Motherland,
Splashing, then, down the tower ,
  Over the old  Sage’s bower ,
Who was practicing the reality  of non-being, ,
Under  the ripe -heavenly pomegranates
Around the  bluest billabong …where
 We swam for a   hundred years ,
With the bones of our  ancestors ,
 Until  someday  a sphinx ,
 Showed us how fragile,
  Our so called  Fathers were ,
Even ,the sage  disappeared,
Squeaking. , after it was too late,
‘Darling ,  run," screamed he..
"OH,  holy father ,  we have  already  gone."

Wednesday, September 10, 2014


Kay Hassan

Pray  in me,  dear goddess,
Don’t   break  me down  into  dusts
I am  a  mortal who for thy joy
Had hit his way  to the shores of  Troy,
Leave me  not in the middle of the oceans, .
 I am nothing,without thy lust;  dear goddess,

Even with all those  holy  shields
Never had  readied  to burn Troy,
It is  you who  had breached the  law,
To make in me a  war-libertine's claw ,

Live   in me and  rhyme  your  song,
I am dearer  than  thy  pilgrims,
To seek  remedy in  your   temples,
Kiss thy  Black-est Stones*
Or taste the Eucharist* - bread

Play  not with my few years
They are dusts of  your sins.;
Will be then
dwindling on a thousand  altars,
Even if I grow the wings of Pegasus ,
Or was honored by the  company of Odysseus;

Tho' 'm  not in step with thy peers
Listen  to my  diamond tears,
They are echoes of  Troy's years  ..

Thursday, September 04, 2014


Kay Hassan
 When,  a  philosopher ran out of all  motives,
Lonely,  wandered off to  the city  ,
And  wept  for the death of his  day,
Spewing out  streams of  holy-gibberish,
 And kept  roaming down towns and  streets,
Until awkwardly stole a glimpse of   his  glorious wife ;
Fluently, selling all kinds of  precious stones .
Quite in accord with  Harvard Business Review ,
He, the poor Philosopher  screamed:
‘Woe  is   me,   Aristotle!    (‘For Aristotle‘s dental logic.)
We are impractical phoenixes,’ said he,
And ran to the river’s estuary,
Ardent to fetch  the finest  river -stone.
Where  he was  shredded, over  a thousand  of them,
 until screamed in the light of his moon
‘Here are my  mentors' stone . ’
And took a hold of the  most unkind  one ,
To set it, in the morning,   on the  class'  display - board
Where he looked   taller against his disciples' word
Until a  sharp  growl escaped his mouth- trumpet:
‘See how  this magical alchemy ,
 liberate  the Cosmos from the Existence atrophy.'
And  bashfully,  the dodger left  the scene .
And farewell-ed his disciples and   triviality.

Language Dies in Hospital

Kay Hassan 

A language Died in Hospital
Without  plans  for   Pow wow
When Hazel Sampson,
 Of  Olympic Peninsula
The  descendant of Lord James Bach,
And  a grandmother
  Of four generations
Lay  in hospital  without clan’s  bows
By her language  like a queen  with  her crown
Klallam, Klallam, Klallam

Hazel neither  was  a cloud thunder,
Nor the  water of  Death Valley , or,
Apaches  of  the southwest terrain   ,
 Or had Cherokees’  Olive  skin
She was Hazel whose body was
shrouded with silk tram
And had  just lullabied
the last sweet  tongue  of Klallam;
Who  hunted, mated and  fought ,
for a thousand years , OR MORE,
And made the  lexicon for all deeds
But are now dying in  hospital ,
With her tongue and  her  language grammar.
But everything froze in one word.
 Klallam, Klallam, Klallam.


Kay Hassan

The Riddle Says::

On the gray stones of the old  bridge,
In   the city of  summer and  fire,
 A blind beggar endures;
The rays of  the cruelest sun,
And the harshest daggers of tongue.
Where  steadily stretches  his  hand
From the  twilight  dim  ,
To the close of the day
Cries unto  passers -by
For God’s sake:  Hit me forty  lashes,
And take this handful of gold;
It is the dearest  dust of  my city,
And  is all what  I posses though,
Take it and pass - me- through
If  are not satisfied thy,
Get in with mine- delightful  wife - three,
And take the Solomon's treasure- key.

. .

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Kay Hassan

In the realm of retrospection, my heart resonates with a lament for an  Indian Zoroastrian Lady, whose recent act of sacrifice reverberates through time. She, who parted with her sole haven of prayers—a rare papyrus vessel encapsulating the Zoroastrian creed's cosmic essence. Ironically, it is amidst the parlance of bootleggers that I find myself occasionally imparting to her son, "Ah, the irony, my friend, for we stand as the true heirs of Zoroaster. A revelation unsought, a legacy concealed."

As swarming locusts devour the fabric of your creed,
Delicately unravel your cocoon, let your spirit take the lead,
No maritime authority guides your course, a tale obscured,
For rocks resist the dance of currents, their secret unheard,
In truth, no steadfast companion by your side will stand,
No refuge found in ancestral caves across the land.

Unfurl your sail, descend the towering cliffs with grace,
To verdant pastures where your lineage finds its sacred place,
Refrain from concealing your diamond visage in mountain's shroud,
Bid adieu to servitude to monarchs' steeds, cast off that shroud,
Engage in the strategic game of life upon wisdom's board,
Master silk's artistry, intricate fabrics richly stored.

Or beneath Hephaestus' gaze, within Xenophon's echo's frame,
Embark on art's odyssey, forging mastery's flame,
From the gold of your weathered soul, sculpt a magnum opus rare,
A virtuoso of skills, crafting existence beyond compare,
Il miglior fabbro, the sovereign creator of temporal rhyme,
A craftsman of epochs, defying the limits of time.

Yet, amidst this transformative symphony that you undertake,
Inscribe within your essence the wisdom that you'll make,
Forgo the fervor of scripture's quill, the "Damn Divine Book" refrain,
Let life's alchemy be your guide, the eternal truths to gain.


Read the poem in a simple form

“This is my  recent  regret to  an  Indian  Zoroastrian  Lady  who  had sold ,  for  her son’s journey,  her only  prayers'  book ; the rarest  papyrus of  the Zoroastrian cult in the universe.     Ironically, however ,in the  bootleggers’ language,  every now and then, I tell her son . ‘Alas, we are the real heir of Zoroaster,  you should  have told me, man. ’”

When  swarming  locusts   digest your cult
Gracefully rip up your cocoon,
You have no maritime command,
And rocks are  never like waters,
Truly,  no one  would  stand by you
No more hide in the ancestors'  caves.
Set  a  sail  down  the towering mountains ,
To the pastures,  where your folk shall dwell,
Don't hold back or
 hide your diamond  face in the mountains,
And never work on  Kings’ horses again,
Play the  longest  game of the chest,
Learn the  trade of  silk  yarn-ing- fabric knitting  ,
Or  under  Hephaestus,   (If you are angry at Xenophon,  remember he was  the worst student of Socrates.) 
Acquire skills in  arts and  metal smith-ing,
To forge  out of the gold of  your  tumbledown soul,
 the best craftsman of all time ;
  il miglior fabbro*.
But   learn not to  write  any Damn  Divine Book.

*Dante   via T. S.  Eliot.


Kay Hassan

‘ I did hit the city  in  1997’

‘ I did hit the city’

When you set sail for Alexandria's shore,
Don’t tread lightly, the ancient tales implore,
No guiding star above its storied ground,
Amidst khamaseen's rage, no solace found.

No rapacious augur should dare intrude,
Not one of Magi with their gifts imbued,
Nor speak in dialect of Alexandria's birth,
Yet sit with Cavafy, poetry's hearth.

Tribute to Hypatia, wisdom's guide,
Lady of Socrates' truths implied,
Dine with Neo-Platonists' discourse,
In Ptolemy's realm, 
measure Mediterranean shores,
And  azure tide.
 Listen to papyruses' whispers, 
read history's pride,
and reconstruct Lighthouse's beacon,
 a flicker's grace, 
where ancient trace,
 hidden in its embrace.
Slow down, passer-by, heed history's plea,
Embrace the city's soul, 
and take your of its legacy,
None shall grasp Alexandria's essence,
But transient souls, not bound by pretense.

‘My Sibling -’
Resist the urge to weave myths anew,
The Macedonian boy, Achilles true,
Dug a thousand graves in timeless sand,
Not the best grave digger, you understand.

‘You are from nowhere,’ echoes the wind,
‘Et-Ego-bin-nicht-terrestrial’ pinned,
Let's, then, son of no man's domain,
Explore the city's joy, turmoil, and pain.

Philosophers graced these ancient streets,
Euclid's geometry, genius replete,
Hypatia's brilliance, a guiding light,
Plotinus' Neoplatonism's flight.

Philo bridged faiths, philosophy intertwined,
Plotinus' wisdom forever enshrined,
Origen's Christian teachings profound,
Alexandria's scholars, wisdom's crown.

Remember, your dimention,
Though you are in Alexandria,
Far from Giza,
Pharaoh's shadow looms o'er sands of old,
Pyramids, relics of tales untold,
Moses' myth, across the sea,
Tales for all to see.
Cleopatra's love, Antonio's embrace,
A queen's allure, a conqueror's grace,
French and English, landing on her shores,
Empires clashed in history's wars.

Through bustling alleys, storytellers weave,
Echoes of philosophers, wisdom to believe,
Screams of the city, a symphony profound,
In each cobblestone, history's sound,
In  looking for Ptolmies' cemetry,
Local archeologists nodded to me:
If you are keen to feel Ptolmies' remains 
Cry on the tombs in the western cemetery, 
But I went deep into the city,
In markets alive with vibrant hues,
Voices rise, blend with ocean's cues,
Bazaars of knowledge, treasures to find,
In the city's heart, my soul, 
makes the universe combined.
From Euclid's math to Hypatia's gaze,
Wars and wisdom, through history's maze,
In each whispering wind, tales unfold,
Screams of the city, stories of old.

Amidst dustbins, treasures still reside,
Echoes of conquerors, battles fought with pride,
Eloquent waiters serve memories on a tray,
Amid screams of the city, whisper and sway.

Let the tales of Alexandria take hold,
Screams of the city, stories unfold,
A symphony of history, passions aflame,
In every corner, the city's vibrant name


when  you set  sail  for Alexandria,
Don’t  treat  the  season lightly,        (Like Bonaparte-   Not part of the poem.)
 There is no star -above  the city.     ( In  khamaseen. Not part of the poem)
Don’t be any   rapacious augur,
You are none of those three Magi,     (Laden with gold, frankincense, and myrrh at Bethlehem's night .Not part of the poem. )
 And not  speaking  Alexandria's Dialect,
To  sit with Cavafy  in the city’s  cafés,
  Or  give a tribute speech  to  Hypatia ,
 the  lady of  Socrates’ Trades.  
And  dine with  the  Neo-Platonists ,
Or measure  under Ptolemy,
The shores of Mediterranean sea
And classify the ancient papyrus  in the Royal  Library!
Or  glimpse even a  flicker  from  the ancient Lighthouse,
Slow down, passer-by are tired,
Slow down and learn;
None of those wretched passengers  shall come to the city,
Thou arst,  but a  wicked passer-by,
‘My  Sibling -’
Don't fix the myths  of Alexandria ,
The Macedonian boy   was a stray Achilles,
Dug for himself a thousand graves.
You are not the best grave digger,
‘You  are from nowhere.’
‘Et -Ego- bin -  nicht - terrestrial.’
Hit  the  city where hungry breeds,
Digging up dustbins for Pharaoh's  leftover-  ‘I MEAN TOURISTS’ LEFTOVER‘ IT IS NOT PART OF THE POEM.
  And listen to  the eloquent  waiters ,
Holding  blurry glasses  for  the cheapest  bitter ,
Cackling - politics, like sluts in hurry.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


Kay Hassan

Oh,  Almighty … Dear  me,
 Look what those demons have got:
Eyes:  are  brighter than thy angels'.
Words :  are sharper than daggers ,
Poisons: are sweeter than thy Grace,
Lyrics:   are rhymed swifter  than, thy books,
 And  they are  luring   sharks,
quicker  then   Maldoror
Our  lovely devil :
The mighty chap of Les Chante de Maldoreor.

Sunday, July 13, 2014


Kay Hassan

Brother ; Master of  quarks ,
I am brewing bones of  the ancestors,
And  the Geometry of the old  graveyard,
On  the milky way,
Holding,  in exile, our  hermitage on my shoulders ,
And listening  to the big bang  preachers ,
Matrix- ing   Finnegan’s  waking -night,
 By The Three Quarks for Muster Mark!

Thursday, July 03, 2014


Kay Hassan
To my   'un- rogue'  fellow.

If you are an old  immigrant ,  mourn your  luck ,
For you  had lost your most valuable time,
Fighting  your  rogue brothers and  the  worst waves  of invaders .
You lost your motherland ,AND  GAVE UP YOUR LOVELY CULT ,

Don’t pass the cult  to thy offspring
Even if you are Greek or a  Roman descendant,
Son of Genghis khan, or
Son of prophets or son of holy Jews

Un-rogue- fellow,
Un-rogue- fellow,
Stop somewhere
And show your tears
You are  not a  thriller-
You are a  grotesque mask

No matter how you Mourn  Your  Luck,
School  thy raging soul - and for good,
Lift  up  yourself ,  higher than ever,
Then  look up unto  topmost- eyes,
Not At Your Past ,Your  Nethermost Region.:
Your ancient arsenal of MALICE.

Twitter Delicious Facebook Digg Stumbleupon Favorites More