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
SULFUR 