SEASIDE HOUSE 290420 – 050520

A. Jameela (1928 – ∞)


You may find yourself

Bulling around in a skeletal battle of field

And you may find yourself

Asking what you’ve been doing for fifty-two years

And you may find yourself

Lost and scared of what you’ve found

And you may find yourself

With legs boned to stray dogs and strayer impulses to blow your brains out

And you may ask yourself

How to bury people alive

And you may ask yourself

Can parents shrug their kids off and die

And you may ask yourself

Do people leave without putting up a fight

And you may ask yourself

How did I get here


A hundred instant-photos


Missed telephone calls

That three decades old Ogero line

Now who will it be with just an answer machine?

All the numbers she’d cared about








Now fading ink on brittling cartoon skin boxed away with

Wallpaper (Qul huwa Allahu ahad / Qul ‘A’udhu Bi-Rabbin-Nas / Qul ‘A’udhu Bi-Rabbil-Falaq /

Qul ya ayyuhal-Kafiroun)

A corn-popper

A drying machine

A washing machine

A blender with nine lives

A bowl of rotten carots

At least a thousand poems on crispy paper

Many glasses whoses thicknesses varied over almost a hundred years

A balloon pump from 2004

A lot of stupid words – said for caring much more – had stopped spinning in the air

Fallen down

Mashed against the dirty carpet

Somewhere in the darkness

A late taxi driver’s smoke finally goes out.


She never left you

Her bruised-with-asphyxia body wasn’t who you thought

I know it looked blacked out / distinguishably strange / painfully familiar

All wrapped up like a vegetable

Cold like a bench

Unmoved like a stone


Left alone

Earthy hairs and a brittling mineral frame

It couldn’t have all felt the same

If she’d said something about it

There’s no sorrow now – merely confusion

‘How will I live back in Square 1 all the way from Square 52

You never taught me how to breathe/eat/walk/speak without you’



It is the Great Depression of the twenty-first century

You put to rest the first big chunk of the tree trunk of your family

The sunlight is now volatile with rage

A thousand crumbling ceilings and agitated rocks mourning

Baby-car-candy-house-pig-shaped clouds disintegrating into shreds

Shreds of apologies and things you never asked or said

Your tree roots are infertile and leafless

The greatest floral limb of your burdened tree heaves to the ground

The ground is an arid plain of alike flowers

Curling into dried petals and dust

The dust suffocating and intolerable – now, unforgivingly gone with the wind

Your once Great Tree now withers

What remains of your dream house garden and piscine crumbles down to

A pool where dogshit accumulates and guano drops false hopes by

Widowed grass / kyphosed / handling all that fatal sadness

Of once beautiful as dwelling revolutions, wild, wild flowers

Now inertic and tranced

The waves that cuddled the softly blanketed coast of your seaside house

Receding/disappearing/betraying what you thought to be a life-long truce


Spring comes too early these days

When melancholy takes root and the incendiary rhetorics wake

Bitter ashes and smoke rising from the ground

The sickly smell of death cuts through a salty blow of wind


You try

Straining eyes and ears for the faintest cue

But you can’t tell where it came from

You can’t tell if these things still exist

It must be an SSRI or a hallucinogenic thing doing its one of many things

You can’t remember anymore

There sits your body on a century-old inherited chair

Placed in parallel with the world’s finale; burned assets and fortunes lost

A dull mist spreads onshore

Obliterating the view of long-lost stars beyond the horizon

“Black dogs” lapping at your feet

Chewing on “bastard weeds”

The “ones” no one let in the chalet

The chalet of “your dreams”

Where your every next breath depends on noonday dreams

Of spring-like heavens and honey/rose water streams

Of people you once-only meet

The irreplaceables, the tyrannical, the outrageous

The brash/loud/angry/soft-gazed/beaming

The ugly/grotesque/breathtaking/beautiful

The warm

As you await your call

The telephone never rings

Is there anyone left?


Stray memories pluck on your limbs

Pluck on your nerves

Stirring up your ills

The cigarettes, the trains

The lights, the people, the traffic chains

All caught up in a hurricane

A crisis in a crises catalogue

A terrain battered into a less Earthly terrain

Ideas catching on the action fogging up the sky

As the world storms with a doomsday’s rage

C. The End

It’s only sirens and missing stars

Sparse across mid-afternoon

A terminator countdown begins to loom

Unseen from a next-of-kin

A hundred years of infinity

Now all gone with the wind

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