PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

Sebuah cerita pendek*

Saat itu mereka sering menonton Mak Lampir di televisi, dan mulai memanggil wanita yang merupakan nenek kandungnya dengan nama yang sama.

Nenek itu punya nama, dan jelas namanya bukan Lampir. Tapi apa pedulinya anak-anak itu dengan nama aslinya? Mereka tak pernah mendengar nama nenek disebut. Mereka sendiri yatim-piatu, dan dahulu, orangtuanya tak pernah mengajarkan nama nenek mereka. Tapi begitu melihat Mak Lampir di teve, mereka langsung mendapat ide untuk memanggil nenek sebagai Mak Lampir. Rambutnya nenek putih panjang dan tiap malam dibiarkan terurai, ia sedikit bungkuk dengan kedua tangan yang terlihat begitu kuat dan cekatan. Matanya senantiasa melotot—bukan karena suka marah, tapi memang bentuknya seperti itu. Yang terbaik dari nenek, meski giginya menghitam sudah, nenek selalu berbau harum karena suka meramu minyak wanginya sendiri. Mereka tidak takut melihat Mak Lampir—mereka justru kagum karena sosok itu mengingatkan pada nenek yang selalu menjaga mereka.

Si nenek sama sekali tidak keberatan dengan julukan itu, ia malah merasa nyaman. Disebut sebagai Mak Lampir membuatnya merasa seperti orang tua yang sakti, hebat, dan serba bisa. Nenek adalah Mak Lampir baik hati yang selalu mengabulkan permohonan cucu-cucunya, serta memberi mereka wejangan. Jenar dan Narsih sayang dan berbakti pada nenek. Nenek—yang sekarang berubah panggilan menjadi Mak—adalah dunia mereka. Dua gadis itu dapat menghapal tiap lekuk pada keriput Mak, menebak-nebak warna baju apa yang akan dipakai Mak pada hari mendung, bahkan mereka ingat betul kapan saja uban-uban Mak mulai bermunculan.

Mak awalnya tidak menyukai, bahkan hampir membenci, dua anak gadis yang harus diurusinya. Ia terlalu tua untuk melakukan hal ini lagi. Wanita  yang sudah tak ingat dan tak ingin menghitung usianya lebih memilih kembang-kembang di taman ketimbang Jenar dan Narsih.  Mak lebih memilih segala tanaman yang ada di rumah kaca sederhananya ketimbang dua cucunya.

Tapi saat sedang menyirami bunga matahari dan membiarkan Jenar serta Narsih bergulingan tertutup tanah basah, Mak merasa seolah ada yang membisikinya, “Sama-sama dari tanah, sama-sama tumbuh besar. Dari tanah, untuk tanah, kembali ke tanah.” Wangsit itu langsung membawa matanya yang sudah sedikit rabun namun tetap nyalang pada sosok dua cucunya yang sudah tak karu-karuan, menghitam karena tanah.

Sejak saat itulah Mak menganggap Jenar dan Narsih sebagai kembang. Sebagai kembang. Sebagai kembang dan seperti kembang yang ia tanam dan kelak akan tumbuh cantik nan indah. Harum, subur, anggun, lebur. Perlahan Mak mulai meninggalkan kebun dan rumah kacanya, perhatiannya ia curahkan untuk Jenar dan Narsih, yang namanya Mak singkat sebagai Jenarsih saat ingin memanggil keduanya sekaligus. Jenarsih dijahitkannya baju-baju berwarna, diberi makanan sayur-mayur yang sehat, diajarkannya meramu minyak wangi, bahkan diberi minum jamu secara terjadwal sebagaimana Mak menyirami bunga.

Kebun Mak perlahan-lahan melayu dan makin sayu. Saat matahari mengintip, tidak ada bebunga yang tergoda untuk mekar. Semuanya redup dan meredup, mentari pun meredup pula di kebun Mak. Karena sirnanya kembang dan embun, Mak tak lagi bisa memetik dari kebunnya untuk membuat wewangian khasnya. Mak jadi sering menyuruh Jenarsih untuk memborong bunga.

Tapi sebagaimana ada gelap ada terang, selepas kebun yang muram, kau akan memasuki beranda rumah di mana matahari tak henti-hentinya bersinar. Bagian dalam rumah yang ditinggali seorang nenek ranum dan cucu-cucunya itu melukiskan hari cerah di musim penghujan.

Di musim penghujan
Di musim penghujan
Musim penghujan
Membawa mendung dan kabut yang menyelubungi mentari.

Narsih jatuh sakit, ia terbatuk-batuk dan memuntahkan darah
Darah merah
Darah
Merah
Jenar selalu di sisinya dan melarang Mak untuk mendekat karena takut tertular.

Mak, meski tak lagi dapat menghitung umurnya, mati-matian menawarkan Jenar agar mau digantikan oleh Mak saja. Umur Mak tak bakal sebanyak Jenar, mending Mak saja yang di sisi Narsih, katanya. Tapi Jenar tak mau tahu, ia lebih memilih berada di sisi kembarannya ketimbang menuruti perkataan Mak yang biasanya tak pernah ia bantah. Semenjak itu mentari tak lagi menyembul. Kebun telah mati, rumah kaca tak lagi rumah kaca, beranda dingin, dan setiap hari adalah penghujan yang tak pernah mau pergi.

Hijau dan jingga hangat berubah menjadi rona kehitaman dalam hijau pucat. Ranting-ranting serta daun memenuhi jalan. Sesekali Mak mengantarkan makanan ke depan pintu kamar Jenarsih, tapi sebagian besar usia senjanya kini dihabiskan mengurung diri di kamarnya setelah Jenar ikut membatukkan darah.

Di suatu sore Mak tidak memperdulikan apapun lagi. Ia menghambur masuk ke kamar Jenarsih dan bersimpuh di bawah kasur kedua cucunya. Jenarsih tak punya tenaga lebih untuk menghalangi Mak, mereka hanya punya satu permintaan. Satu keinginan yang kira-kira dapat membuat mereka merasa lebih baik.

Dengan tersengal-sengal,
“Mak Lam, Jenar dan Narsih ingin bunga matahari.”
“Akan Mak belikan segera di pasar kembang.”
“Ndak mau, Mak. Ingin yang Mak tanam seperti dulu.”
“Nanti menunggu lama,”
“Kami ingin itu, Mak.”

Mak tak membalas berkata. Hanya mengangguk lemas dan bergegeas meninggalkan kamar kedua cucunya, bunga yang telah layu. Di tengah hujan, dengan punggung sedikit bungkuk, tangan yang kuat, wanginya yang digantikan oleh bau tanah, dan gigi yang menghitam meringis menahan tangis, Mak Lampir berusaha menghidupkan kembali kebunnya yang mati. Mak Lampir seolah mau, dan dapat membangkitkan yang mati.

Tapi Mak Lampir tak dapat menyembuhkan.

Segera dibelinya bibit bunga matahari, dan di tanam dalam rumahnya yang kini sunyi.

Mak Lampir sudah tak dapat mengolah minyak bunga yang membuatnya selalu harum,
Sudah tak dapat meminta Jenarsih untuk membeli bunga yang mewarnai rumah mereka,
Sudah tak dapat melihat warna selain hijau, hitam, dan coklat.

Mak Lampir, menangisi kebun yang dahulu ditinggalkannya.

Apa untuk mendapatkan sesuatu selalu harus ada yang dikorbankan? Dan kini kebun, kembang, ranting, dan rumah kaca menuntut balas?
Diam-diam Mak menyelinap ke kamar Jenarsih, diambilnya darah cucu kesayangannya dan ia gunakan untuk menggantikan wewangian yang kini tak dapat ia buat lagi—salah satu cara yang ia gunakan untuk mengingatkannya bahwa Jenarsih masih ada bersamanya.

Mak Lampir sudah tak tahu berapa lama waktu berlalu selama ia hanya memperhatikan bunga matahari milik Jenar dan Narsih. Bunga itu, entah karena apa, tak dapat tumbuh. Mungkin Mak telah kehilangan tangan hijau dan kemampuannya untuk berkebun. Mak kembali ke rumah dan melihat Jenar serta Narsih masih terlelap tak bergerak, lalu ia ambil lagi sebotol kecil darah untuk menjaga wangi tubuhnya.

Ia tahu itu akan membuatnya sakit, dan hal ini akan dapat membuatnya merasakan penderitaan Jenarsih. Wanita tua yang rambut putihnya memerah karena darah kedua cucunya itu terheran-heran mengapa ia tak merasakan sakit di manapun kecuali di hatinya. Pedih di hati saat melihat Jenarsih.

Dibelinya lagi lebih banyak tanah dan bibit bunga matahari. Mak Lampir harus menemukan ramuan yang tepat untuk menumbuhkan bunga matahari yang sempurna. Bunga matahari hasil tanamnya sendiri yang akan membuat Jenarsih baikan. Mak tidak membawa jam, apalagi kalender. Mak hanya mengandalkan matahari untuk menyirami bunga mataharinya sendirian di rumah kaca kecil kumal sambil memakan dedaunan kering.

Di tengah malam, Mak yang kuat menitikkan air mata pada ***-*** bunga matahari di hadapannya. Berbotol-botol kecil minyak wangi dari darah Jenar dan Narsih perlahan ia teteskan pada *** yang tak kunjung berbunga juga. Perlahan, perlahan, perlahan. Lalu lambat laun menyesuaikan dengan jadwal menyiram bunga matahari yang seharusnya.

Dari tanah kembali ke tanah,
Dari tanah untuk tanah,
Dari tanah kembali ke tanah.

Desir angin menggesekkan dedaunan, membuat Mak mendengar bisikan itu lagi dan terbangun.
Mak mengusap matanya yang seolah mencuat keluar dan melihat bunga-bunga matahari berkelopak merah menyembul, mekar dengan indah pada tiap potnya. Hati mak berbunga-bunga. Bunga matahari merah berbunga-bunga. Matahari Jenarsih berbunga-bunga.

Tangan kuat Mak segera menggapai dan mencengkram dua *** tanah liat dan ia berlari memasuki beranda rumah yang pintunya telah reot. Dari jauh sudah berteriak, “Jenar, Narsih, Jenarsih!!”
Mak seolah mendengar derap langkah dari arah berlawanan yang akan menyambutnya, tapi derap itu tak terdengar mendekat. Maka berteriaklah Mak sekali lagi,

“Mak bawa bungamu Jenarsih! Bunga matahari merah yang cantik!”

Lalu Mak dorong dengan pundaknya pintu kamar Jenarsih yang meringkik ringkih,
Mak terdiam memeluk *** bunga,
Jenarsih terlelap seperti terakhir kali Mak meninggalkannya,

Sebagai tulang belulang semata.

                                                            ///

Aku menutup laptop setelah menonton ulang episode Mak Lampir Penghuni Rumah Angker yang aku dapat dari internet—episode yang membawaku kembali ke masa kecil saat Misteri Gunung Merapi masih ditayangkan di teve, dan aku menonton dengan takut. Di tengah kengerianku, ibu malah menceritakan kisah tentang Mak Lampir dan bunga matahari yang diyakininya sebagai kisah nyata.

Sekarang episode sinetron itu tak lagi membuatku bergidik, malah tutur ibu yang masih membekas. Kisah itu seringkali terulang dalam alam pikirku, terutama saat melirik rumah reot tetangga di ujung jalan yang dipenuhi dengan bunga matahari merah.


Januari, 2017

I wander into this dark, misTearYous room
—and there he was...and wow! What a Fig!

He with the long, lustRuse hair,
sitting at a corner table, nursing a cup of hot cocoa.
Dang. He has better hair than I do!

“I’m  a  gin at  Ion’s,” were his first words spoken.
“I’m  a  gin at  Ion’s.” And then sighlens.

I was trying to look through his lens, and figure out his sighs,
when he utters, “I can see you are number—“

“Huh? I am number what? I don’t see any lines here..."

“Ah, yes you are, as I was... NumBer as in more than numb.”

Epicfunny!

He definitely got me, he with the misTearYous eyes
so I sit down and ask him what he means
(but I refused to ask how he saw through my numbity)

“What do you mean that you are a gin? And where is Ion’s?”

“Exactly just that. I’m a gin at Ion’s. A **** t’Eve.”

He tells me that Ion’s is nowhere, everywhere and knowhere,
of how anyone who takes even a sip of that gin can hold on to it—
too much, so much so, as to lose that grip on ReAhhlity...

I ask him what he does there.
Seemingly one word, two meanings—
"aMuse," says he...

He reveals he is also part-tickles, part abs-tackles
then he also exhails at wind ‘o pains,
to fog or clear up views and relayshunships...
But oh! How at one point he felt tieurd, of how he had so many callUses—
numb, tired of how it reCurse, of always being called upon, of being used

Sighlens.

Been used So many times, he didn’t know who he was anymore...
a Duke at Ion’s,
      a con’s front at Ion’s,
an ex pecked at Ion’s,
    a lucid at Ion’s,
              a rebel at Ion’s...

Oddly enough, even if he has been ‘d sign at Ion’s,
he still felt blahtantly invisible,
even if at one point he wore only a V-bra at Ion’s!

He chalks everything up to exPeerience, and has learned from it.
And that's why he's also known as a sensei at Ion’s (his personal favorite)

He says even if he can go beyond infinity, he—
He stops (ah gain!) and yes, there it sneaked in...Sighlens.

Telling me through the void, through his sighs, through his lens
To close my eyes, and figYour out myself.

And then I do...

ReAhhlieZing how much I could relate,
how I have been in DenyAll of my possiBElities.
It is all a matter of perSpeck'tEve, of looking at each tiny speck of life,
of creating something from each of it, entire universes even—
boundless

How odd that I myself felt like I'm a gin at Ion's...
Scrunchscrunch...Imaginations.
Addictive, yes, so I best be careful with where I take it.

I oh!pen my eyes and the fig meant to show me ReAhhlity had gone...

Geografia (2)**

Havia a lua a conquistar: magno evento.
Mas a vida corria normal em solo firme
Ah, e os sustos: o estômago puro vento
Eu silente, exausto, adormecia inerme.
Entanto, no cerrado havia muitas frutinhas.
E havia a revolução, e reuniões de oração.
Quando dormia no meio do Pai-Nosso.
Uma centena de orantes à espera de um milagre.
Então Seu Roque viajava para o Interior –
Com seu carrossel de slides e nossas fotos
Não havia quem não doasse alguma coisa:
- Um capado, um saco de arroz, bananas
Em cachos; voltava no fordinho velho
Mas bem fornido; tão feliz, e barbado.
& The United Brothers enviavam cartas.
Dentro dessas meu primeiro bookmark
E o desejo de conhecer o estrangeiro...
Na escola dominical, aprendi os 10 Mandamentos.
Ficava triste nas tardes de domingo; ainda agora.
Um gosto de mangaba e o dedão do pé doendo
Como quando chutava lobeiras em lugar de bolas.

O abrigo era o melho lugar do mundo limpo
O quintal; o milharal capinado; havia o Careta
Nosso cavalo; o Thinka – latindo para o Leão.
Éramos tão felizes quando banhados à espera
De vovó Cecília e seus doces de buritis...
Jesus, como era o teu nome chamado.
Até que o Filemon teve convulsão e tudo desabou
Sobre nossas cabeças como o Apocalipse de S. João.
Fim.
./.

There was another Sunny day shot down in its mid-prime half-cocked wishing-hour- lens focused black spinning endless through the galley

whispered up to me from down below, told you not to tell, you told

now here comes Teve and Tern eternal
fleeting through the narrow passage wiping
reams of dust with microfiber cloths from off/on/off
whole Aesop fables told and burned up Joan of Arc turns pale
the moonlight never saw a thing
not when the stuff was key and turning round the alley round the corner down the street
apartment S.O.C.I.E.T.Y. all cautioned off that same old smell of
fun and games like blame game shame game games we used to play in the Sunny day shot down bang gotchya king of wasps
defend the street defend the block then meet up in the garage
trees, grass, stones, the edifices of our perfect world inhabited by X and
A thru Z excluding Y self-****** self-****** half-slumped over the
desk in the central library now It's deduction time, pull out your questions
line-up
suit-up,
load-out, jump-out
over-and-out, roger roger roger roger Teve and Roger and Tern eternal reeling
thoughtless X to X itself on subjects A-Z excluding
Y up on the welfare, on the limp-train, lives in A-P-T-S-O-C-I-E-T-Y
cries over spilt milk from the G-R-O-C-E-R-Y-S-T-O-R-E
narrow passageways with red-caps loading red-caps into die-cast-plastic-pitfalls
start stop crouch prone half-cocked half-wishing-hour-lens focused black spinning endless through the tall grass
tall trees
dead leaves, dead sticks,
deaf crickets/ weevils/ ants
deaf beetles in the dead leaves, in the black grass,
bits of broken glass
scrape, scraped, scraping up the newborn flesh
they're fleeting through the hornet's nest
the wasps and black-flies perched upon the unseen slivers
of the slivers
of the tall, black, dead, lush, fresh, free, flowing, growing, burning, screaming, hulking, looming shadows cast against the grass of green

It's time to thank

thank you, thank you, thank you,
thank me, thank them, thank us, thank this, thank that,
thanks again, thanks for everything, yeah thanks, thanks man, thanks bro, thanks pop thanks ma thank God &

Time to say goodbye

Goodbye, goobye! Bye-bye! So long! Farewell! Take care! Be safe! Be good! Work hard! Good luck! Ta-Ta! Peace out! Peace be
with you!
Have fun! Have fun! have fun! have fun! Have fun!

And now It's time to eat

Munch munch, crunch munch, munch crunch, crunch crunch, munch munch,
slirp slop slorp slirp slorp slip slip slorp slop slop
who eats this slop
slop slorp slorp crunch
slorp slirp slip munch

Thank you! Farewell!

Outside the sky is deep and warm and resolute you turn your friend is black and grey with bits of purple in between that seem to pulse as sirens wail the call to arms blunt sticks blunt instruments die-cast-from-the-mold boxed, shipped, bought, sold, loved, loathed left&right loved left&right bought left&right made left sold right sold left&right loose arms dangle jangle  loose and free soar free across the grassy knoll the fields the deafened ants and beetles feast upon the left&right between the sea&sky upon the land here on the land you take my hand, we run off where the cave mouth gapes and shut behind us into darkness love and hate like sticks and stones collide caress and soon the sparks fluoresce behold the light we roast our rations, roast our cares, and then It's time to say goodnight.

Good-night! Sleep well! Sweet dreams! Sleep tight!
love you! love you! love you! love you! love you. love you. love you.

The filthy children banging on the gates, the crooked house high on the hill looks down and groans, the shelter seems to sigh, collapsing underneath the acid rain, a holy flood descends upon the town there's nothing left she clutches at her dress the wooden door inscribed  

A.P.T. S.O.C.I.E.T.Y.

floats listlessly by

-MR-

Hoje sinto que aquela bola de sabão existe!
É uma bola de verdade, leve e livre, pelo vento,
Sente-se os sons das palavras, que expeliste,
Sentiu-se aqui o timbre, presente do alento!

O longo curso, no horizonte dessa montanha,
Que um dia essa bola quis seguir, sente-se aqui!
Brilham olhares atentos à noite, agora estranha,
O olhar de bolas voando vê-se agora até daqui!

Desperta solto e livre o sol de medo dos ventos,
Dispersa cores cinza, que o habitaram por tempos,
Ouvem-se desejos de liberdade, nestes momentos,
Quem sabe agora, o tom dos seus passatempos?

Não vejo os Invernos, nem se sente o tom do inferno,
Plana sobre a linda natureza um cheiro aflito e difuso,
Que sonho teve o vento, que te levou e trouxe, recluso!
Voa-as pelos céus e nem sabes mais a forma do parafuso!

Os círculos controversos do prender da abertura das portas,
Sustentam como metal idêntico as formas do pensamento,
Não importa ser bola de sabão e voar ao saber do vento,
Foi disposição para soltar amarras e viver o que hoje adoras!

O homem fez-se fora e a mulher vê-se agora, ambos cintilantes,
Todos os medos e costumes, já doentios, na hora do descanso,
Quando à noite no silêncio, os medos dos sons são abundantes,
Fogem sorridentes porque mesmo carentes têm seu descanso!

Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.09.18.02.23

Um dia pego numa folha e escrevo sobre ti. Sobre como sei de cor todos os traços da tua face e como os teus olhos brilham ao luar.
Escrevo o que nunca mais ninguém teve coragem de escrever sem fazer sofrer.
Amo-te.

Por que fazer assim?

Complicar tanto as coisas

Como se quisesse se afastar de mim.

Depois de tudo que vimos

E dos fatos escancarados

Não há mais o que negar

Entar porque não juntar

nossos cacos quebrados?

Você ja teve alguem

que te esmigalhou em pedaços

Eu nunca tive alguem

que completasse meus espaços

Então porque não juntar

nossos cacos quebrados?

Muitas são as cabeças que se agilizam em governar Portugal. Sim cabeças de políticos, que bem, ou mal formados nos encaminham no fracasso.
Aquilo que é de todos e contributo de todos deveria ser nosso. Falo do Sistema Nacional de Saúde em primeiro, para o qual todos contribuímos e onde muitos dos que lá trabalham, optam por de uma necessidade populacional fazer uma fonte de rendimento. A seguir e porque também a mim me toca, justiça. Como pode ser possível que a justiça, solene e a segunda coisa mais importante da Constituição, esteja hoje nas mãos da comunicação social que diariamente condena e absolve tanta gente, cometendo diariamente vários crimes de devassa e nada lhes acontece.
Infraestruturas de Portugal, redes viárias construídas com o dinheiro de todos nós e muitas delas exploradas por particulares.  
TAP, EDP, PT, Correios de Portugal, águas  e outras instituições privatizadas que hoje só esvaziam os nossos bolsos.
Em tempos Portugal era mais que um retângulo ao largo da península ibérica, era o Brasil, Angola, Moçambique, Guiné, Timor, Macau e muito mais ainda foi derretido nas mãos de quem as teve.
Cá dentro, apesar de pequenos hoje, Portugueses julgam-se os que vivem em cidades grandes e o interior cada vez mais é esquecidos e despovoado, onde os Portugueses que lá vivem apenas servem para pagar impostos, e no resto cada vez mais esquecidos, até o direito há saúde tem horário para se estar doente.
Caros senhores do poder, se querem que o interior do país não seja habitado mas sim esquecido, entreguem aos espanhóis o que lhes foi tirado tal como fizeram quando entregaram Macau há China, talvez assim as pessoas que lá vivem consigam sentir-se como pertencendo a um país .
Chega de arruinar a vida de quem trabalha e vangloriarem-se com a epidemia de gente que quer morrer, com a pandeleiragem e a prostituição humana que nos assola diariamente por nossas casas a dentro e nos chegam pela TV desde manhã cedo. Basta de maus costumes e má gente.
António Benigno
Codigo Activista 2018.06.04.01.06.2050

"Oi!"
Ele me disse, com os olhos cheios de água...
"Quanto tempo não?!
Eu pensei que você não voltava!"
Eu disfarcei,
pensei duas vezes no que dizer,
não nasci pra sofrer!
Por amor então que não.

E ficamos nessa pequena caixa de texto,
nesse pequeno diálogo...
Passaram-se os anos, 20...
Ele se casou,
Teve filhos,
Morreu.

Eu fui ao seu enterro.
Eu não me casei, nem tive filhos,
nem sofri.
Nem amei.
Mas ah o amor, é só sofrimento...
Eu não nasci pra sofrer,
Ainda mais por amor.

mudei recentemente pra esse lugar novo
ainda não me adaptei
não sei agir de acordo
sigo sendo eu, mas parece um eu novo

teve um dia em que não respeitei o horário de silêncio
dava pra ver a lua refletindo meu anseio
então abri as janelas
(do meu peito)
e gritei

esse eu
novo eu
não cabia mais em mim
tive que explodir
então gritei, buscando um jeito de expandir

e descobri, afinal de contas
o que tinha de tão novo:
era a voz.

mudei recentemente pra um lugar silencioso
onde as explosões se escondem
atrás de olhos encharcados
e corpos domados

mas esse eu
novo eu
explode aos quatro ventos
mesmo que de um jeito manso
(ainda assusta escapar do próprio corpo)

sorri, ali
com a janela aberta mesmo
ouvindo aquilo ecoar

sinti, sem dificuldade
que esse eu
o novo eu
nunca mais vai se calar
​

O nome dele é Kuber
Vive em uma área rural.
Havia um pedaço de terra, vacas para arado e uma pequena casa
Com aqueles que ele dirige sua vida.

Ele teve que vender tudo para o casamento de sua filha
Agora torne-se diarista
Come se conseguir um trabalho, caso contrário, permanece meio comido ou passando fome.

É assim que acontece, a noite chega
E as dores do desespero flutuam no ar.

Finalmente ele decidiu, ele irá para a cidade em busca de trabalho
Com tantas esperanças, um dia parte para a cidade.

aqui dentro cabem toneladas de palavras
que poderiam sair pra fora a qualquer momento

também a raiva é um problema grande demais e sabe de uma coisa?
guardo-a em potinhos pequenos porque acho que merecem.

risadinhas barulhentas e medições em hábito desnecessárias.
sabe quando vão notar que estava viva?

teve um dia que chorei depois de fazer absolutamente nada.
nada.

e senti um quentinho, um quentinho, um quentinho!

um dia fui mais educada do que deveria e hoje só sou mais quieta por fora.

não por dentro.

Histórias
Não sei ainda como pretendo escrever, nem sei se há alguma forma de dizer nada.
A cabeça, pelo menos a minha, não pensa, não age como pretendia. Porquê?
-Talvez porque esta minha escrita seja apenas para mim. Dito isto, explico.
Como posso pensar, sentir, refletir ou agir em descrever se o resultado são risos e graça que se acha na minha análise sobre as coisas. Os meus sentidos podem estar fracos e eu ser enganado permanentemente sobre as minhas análises.
Nem sempre ouço discórdia ou oposição.
Não pretendo que mundo pare nem as mentes do homem. Apenas me aborrece ver as minhas ideias bizarras e desinteressantes servirem de trampolim há intelectualidade alheia.
Não é um mundo este em que as ideias rápidas e prematuras possam servir para consolidar direções. As raízes são fortes e as mente também já foram mais brilhantes. Muito do que parece engraçado e fácil hoje pode ser destrutivo.
O ciclo pandémico do conhecido vírus de 2019, mostrou fragilidades e uma enganosa mudança que faleceu à nascença.
A mente teve e sofreu um clique real. A fragilidade. Tudo está muito mais confuso agora há medida que seguimos esta direção. Mas muitas mentes se agruparam em função de uma estirpe próxima. Parece que o interesse é salvar uma determinada espécie. Hoje é mais fácil combater qualquer inimigo. O capitalismo manda muito mais.
Esconde-se o dinheiro, até onde? Esconde-se a solução, até quando?
O que não interessa é haver uma sociedade sólida de princípios.
Quer mesmo o ser humano descobrir o que deveria estar perdido, desafiar a divindade como nunca.
Nesta derradeira e desafiante cruzada eu não serei um mero expectador, não irei temer nada, e viverei isto como um conflito de presença de sentir a vida como ela deve ser sentida.
Nenhuma outra desgraça espero passar por defender o certo e seguir os princípios da doutrina, que uns profanam e negam por mera conveniência.
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2020081022300801

O ano de 2020 é um restauro. Combinação exponencial do algoritmo máximo duplicado e zerado. Porém são números espero que errados. Nada alterou nestes últimos tempos a não ser a fórmula biológica que acrescentou ruína. Publicamente a verdade, voltou-se a economia bélica pra área da necessidade. Só se para quem o diz. Impossível compreender o homem!
Enfim, ou eu sou burro cego ou surdo que não entendo a serenidade na resolução do problema. A política nua e crua, pelo menos a política que até aqui conhecemos. Surgiu uma doença séria com consequências nefastas e o combate há doença? Duas tragédias juntas!
Os países caminham para uma destruição previsível.
Apocalipse de quê. Por desaparecer o que não faz falta ao mundo, tudo iria acabar e escondiam tudo numa caixinha debaixo da cama. O homem é semelhante a si mesmo, nada têm de divino. O dito Deus que se conste não vive observado por dinheiro ou coisas bélicas. As profecias também dizem que o Alfa e o Omega, fizeram este mundo e não teve início nem terá fim. Supomos que estamos a meio.
Era óptimo que o homem na sua existência virasse a sua inteligência para a sua fragilidade desde início.
Destruíram escolas, hospitais, quartéis e serviços públicos, isolaram os contribuintes de primeira dos contribuintes do fundo. Existe Portugal do Oeste e o Portugal de Leste. No meio uma papa de arroz 🍚 com água fervida. No combate há guerra soltaram abelhas biológicas sem rainha. Temos rainha? por quanto tempo? A caça à colmeia começará depois. Unidades militares a socorrer civis. Bravo. E os hospitais privados socorrerão os militares? Talvez não seja preciso. Deixem de ser betinhos e assumam a condição de Homens. Afinal como me dizia um amigo: As prisões foram feitas pros Homens assim como esta arma biológica, ou não é de interesse resolver o problema.
À democracia do momento exige-se regidez e a meu ver que nada invejo na política averdadeira democracia têm regras a esta pátria a quem devemos a vida. Pensem senhores se é que ainda vamos a tempo.
Autor: António Benigno
Código de Autor: 2020.03.25.23.08.03.01