The poem is dead /by :Mohsen Elbelasy

The poem is dead

BY : Mohsen Elbelasy

He was going on like a lost shadow. 

He wears a red coat in the time of the murderous bulls.

 As a skinny frog, He sleeps in the debris of himself. 

He eats fresh death. 

He jumps over desperate burning rocks. 

The god poet died Leaving many old humans behind, The 

heavy dust asking: 

What will you find behind the last fort of that hidden in the crystal? 

The poem is dead in a slaver’s bed. 

The poem died in slaver’s bed. 

And you…… You are a jungle of old desires. 

What ? 

How about a scene that hunted the butterflies of the impossible?

 O dust, be a guitar

…… So it is

 Be a man wearing a coat of pianos that’s playing a symphony of falling debris and thirst. 

Dance, dust, and spit out all the plague that inhabits ant heads in the squares. 

On the Sonnet of the broken roads…

 dance and be a burning smack that breaks the monotony of the dying shadows.

 The night passes. 

And the butterflies of the dream explode like a death……. 

Line-in-line, 

extended colors in the oysters of Fading. 

And the blood of the sheep woven with handcuffs that are hanging over your head,

 It forms an eternal wreath of gum 

Dear poet…… 

You are a tomb saturated with the penultimate smoke of death…. 

The bells of the Negation strike your broken neck.. 

Your chest graves sing the rush hour…. 

You are nailed to the wall of spiders with  looters hats…. 

Fluttering over thorns of waiting…… 

Red like water

 Blue like fire

 Black like air.

 O painter Many locusts come and fly over your color palette…. 

Locusts and more locusts Bleeding and more bleeding

 O painter 

Do not make from the Drawing board what the butcher does when he decapitates the utopian lambs….. 

Make your painting a delirious microscope that does not lie in the gypsum logic shrouds…. 

Draw crumpled handcuffs and a bottle of wine bearing the reddening of the crowd of screams………. 

O musician ………..

 I do not want to hear anything that brings me to death….. 

O musician play something like a tight fist with faces that don’t kneel. 

And from the noise draw a hammer

 Little by little 

write letters that do not fly from the chimneys….. 

O , vague, burning mind Explode

 Or you died in silence, mixed with pallor Mixed with fear…

 O hand that filled with volcanic eyes.. 

Slap me on my unhappy face, break it so that it won’t fall into the tissues of spiders and the upper hanger of the pigs…. 

Until Obsessive dies and is replaced by a new void… 

Here on this dirty, bloody street…… 

The poet wolf was killed With mixed tears in his black blood, 

stretched And the night flowing from his mouth on the sidewalks of expatriation. 

Your street where all the keys are lost, burdened with locks, 

you will die like the god poet and like the poem

By : mohsen elbelasy

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s