Ali Ghafoor is currently training to be an obese industrialist. He generally dwells in the area between his ears although he is known to venture out fairly often. He can be reached at aligh4@gmail.com.
—
Ramshackle^2
I love you
angel
because we have
a matching
pain
and we both admire
cracks in the plaster
with our broken eyes
and chipped-tooth
smiles
understanding and admiring
the beauty
of the house
falling down
around
us.
—
Untitled
The corners of my eyes tingle under subtle assault
By wisps of incense, saffron, cinnamon, sweat.
The fire has burnt itself out,
and rose petals are strewn
across the floor
Like the dreams of a childhood- now extinct.
These scattered grains of rice
And crimson footprints upon the ground,
Are symbols of hope for tomorrow,
but despite all the power of their imagery,
They fail to
Erase
Yesterday.
For the rice did not fall in
A single wave of incoming bounty,
And the cracks upon her heels are apparent,
Printed in red across the stark white marble,
And in the strongest of mockery of their traditions.
It is not into this decorated abode that they descend
No
These flowers are the final ripe harvest
Of a chapter that ends
With the rhythmic intensity of beating drums,
And hypnotic chants imbued
With a richness only time can profess,
Yet with what deeply ingrained logic
Can they justify this deep inconsistency,
Upon this ground so sacrosanct, so hallowed,
The rice has fallen and their feet have tread,
The direction is towards the door,
It is to other abodes that they descend.
—