Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
   that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--

with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvy gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.

Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
                                        spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.

Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone  praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.

With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.

If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of your life

from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be

as lucky as you had been.

Flowers are the earth's fruit
    Which await the sun's permission
         To beautify and ripen

And at night may serve
   As guiding lanterns floating atop
          Their mother thorns

To gently lead the moon oceanward.

Every bar looks the same
when you live in a cage,
every round rounds out
with a shot and dry snout.

A cold night out
without snow on the pavement,
as truth slowly trickles through the fickle adoration,
and the empty, impatient crowd
is waiting.

The spotlight hits
a white tie on white shirt,
his smile is perfection,
perfected from dirt
through years of tears and blood and lies,
pompous prattle pasteurised.

The spotlight lingers like cheap perfume
from the back of the room
on a white tie and shirt,
handsome as a groom,
he talks with his hands,
his nails, neatly clipped,
are still lined with dirt.

He holds on to hope
for something like bliss,
not quite convinced it even exists,
outside of an incidental kiss,
but the build-up is crucial
to a master crafter,
and the crowd is rapt,
from the floor to the rafters
awaiting their happily ever after.

Poetry is capturing a scene, an event, or a deed with your eyes,
Processing it in your mind,
Feeling it in your heart,
Letting go, and
Expressing it with your words.

Hussein Dekmak

you slow feet that walk step by step

be quiet and move aside



make way for the wheels in fast approach

blowing horns and puffing black smoke

Fortonuate palms skim the dogeared surface
Of the snakes and ladders without clear direction--

Hot tea and foggy glasses. Familiar lips
That look as young as ever when they smile.

Sun melting in the clouds like mollases
While the breeze lifts and plays with

Our clothes.

Hollow words served as concierge
For this used up body-- orbs and a silhouette,

That's all you get as it's all I was perceived as

And all I've left to give.

But here I don't have any will to offer.

I've gave you everything and how peaceful

It is to be contempt replaying another day.