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.'”

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