Deserted Son

Some hidden memory,

of your time in the womb –
your small thoughts flashing, dreaming
of desert dancers and gyring dust.

A soon to be birthing majnūn,
A mum’s janīn, the bitter surprising result
of tousled sheets
and nights with a nomadic bar back…

The brooding, bastard boy –
restless hands, like his father,
curdled naivety, like his mother…
fathless heart, like all sons

Hands that lash, beat, tear…
almond eyes that hide
a dancing tempter,
a whisperer,


Hidden, such hidden
the brooding boy, the failing scholar,
with a drunken tutelary spirit
whispering nonsense,
a broken old thing, best heard in the Latin,
lost in the desert
beneath the brilliant son

who pounds
and beats
and spins to dust.


About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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