"marrakech" poems
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
The day is quiet
is given to the sun.
Pop in the night
every miniute
is people's time.
I look up in the sky
but missing a star.
Maybe it's lurking
in the sweet breeze.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire,
Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco.
Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home,
And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress?
Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources.
There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure.
Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone.
Herr Trump, where is the ice going?
Would you sell the penguins for profit?
Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness.
Tell them sincerely.
Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same.
What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
In the arid dust I can see a shimmer of you in the distance, the red of your hair mixing with the ochre earth
Amid the noise and collision of caravansary in Jemaa el-Fna I hear your soft drawl joking with Snake charmers, always in hustle
In souks the sweetness of fennel and myrrh swirl in the wake of travellers steps and I'm reminded of your desert scent, like cedar and musk covered dust
In the dissonance of the call to prayer I can feel your awe as struck as mine, while the roiling sound of voices lifted in faith erupt over the Medina
In the coolness of Jardin Majorelle, I can feel your head resting on my shoulder as I contemplate the reflection of Lotus blossoms in stark blue pools
I see your eyes in the green of the Atlas Mountains, echo your amazement at Saharan navigation, feel your peace as the stars appear over the Riad
But can't feel your hand in mine as the sun sets over Marrakech
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Give me a fresh *** of your nips.
Ehh?? Give me a ******* turnip!
I went to Peterborough, came from Marrakech,
Which one should I rip to flesh?
In summer I love to chew icicles,
Whatever! It’s to die for!
I rode a bike and had a stew,
Never mind this poem, go and have a poo.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
Where lonely camels roam, dunes in darkness lay
And myriads of stars glow in disarray.
Solely the morning star, lone wanderer, shines bright
And thus illuminates this dark Moroccan night.
As the gleaming eye of heaven rises in the East,
wake the weary nomad and his weary beast.
And as it reaches zenith, the heat burning the flesh,
they reach their destination: the vibrant Marrakech.
Explosion of colors, spices galore
Sold on bazaars selling infinitely more
A snake tamer plays his tunes in a trance
and the dervishes do their habitual dance.
And with every turn, every swish, every sway,
Unfolds like a dream the Moroccan day.
'Til the sun sets again in this wondrous land
To darken once more the kingdom of sand.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
With thoughts of old childhood birthday blossoms,
and crisp, clear fragrant summer mornings never to be forgotten
the gift of peace to a commitment untold
and the life and heart of the country unfold
from the birth of fawn to the parting of old bones
the lush of leaf or the solemn of stone
with the gush of stream and the call of bird
this country could entice the soul of any to turn
the sodden wet grass from a night of refresh
with the elegant bluebells littered like trade stands across Marrakech
the love and flesh of a greater power once said
and the flavour and colour to be feasted once again
by the old man gamekeeper the luckiest man I've met
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality.
There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness.
It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries.
Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred.
Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive?
My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history.
Do you offer your consent?
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
You were just a Barmaid
but I was just a Nothing
well worse anyway
but there are a few things that you taught me
besides the feeling of your stubby thumbs upon my face
how they would stick
and how I'd want them to stay
or your little lips
when I couldn't resist
and Id just give in
or the time you finally let me massage your back
I wanted to think it mattered
it certainly did to me
but I am such an *******
since I couldn't just say it
how Id love to massage your back for the rest of my days
and when sometimes things seemed to be so perfect
somehow I just couldn't accept it
Instead I get scared I say the exact thing
to push you away
I tried telling you
how I had this problem
how I was insecure but it wasn't so simple
and I was too caught up in my thoughts
but you helped me get out of them
and this is where you helped me mature
to grow and learn
and then amongst other things that you taught
there were some that you make clear
for me to observe
but then others that we both take a part of
e.g. falling in love
I wondered if I gave you any lessons
if I helped you learn
I wish I did
something that would make you want to come back
thinking of how you'd walk cross armed
with your bag
trapped in the corner of your shoulder
which had, something written on it
something like marrakech
something like that
and there was some funny font
and an elephant
or so I remembered
and so I longed
things were different for us
from your family that showed you love
and my parents who were far from it
Its why I ended up as a poet
musician, and an artist
all these ways I need to express
how I feel since I am too impressed
with everything too often
and I find it hard to say what I mean
But thats not to say you might of found it easy
hopefully this isn't just me fooling myself
Thinking you might have feelings.
I have my normal response
to be rash and tell
you all about how I feel
But I realize now
I need to be rational
as you have to know
this time its real
I get scared of waiting
thinking you already
know what will be.
but you once told me anything is possible
and so you give me will
to wait patiently to not be so emotional
because I am very emotional
but I wait
anxiously
for how you feel
as I know that in the wake of this
you will have to give me the will
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
When the bong's
not the sound from a dinner gong
where
did I go wrong?
kitsch on a ketch in Marrakech
fetch me a spyglass
pass me the chain
let's hear the sound from the
dinner gong
again.
There's a fissure
the missionary's fishing for me
I fall where all the fallen go
don't know where that is
but
I'm going to find out.
Not well today
so
blaming it on decimalisation
the falling pound
(must be where the fallen go)
the state of the nation
David Cameron
anything else I can get
my hands on
even
Lonnie Donegan,
well
skiffle rhymes with sniffle.
and vanishing cream does not do the trick
doesn't advertising
make you sick?
I never once bounced with health
after eating that dog food I
bought off the shelf.
Everything's different
nothing's the same
no ****** bongs
electronic gongs
microwaved meals
it all feels so
wrong.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC