Ilhem Issaoui

The Child that Was Me

no one to be seen
all along the cimmerian road
with a bottle, I broke my head
and all, all the dreams clinquant
were reddened
and suddenly eyes behind glasses
led me to think of vomiting and nausea
they wanted my soul and soil
I hated them
I fled
no sooner they entered
my most cherubic dreams
as if some Cerberean creature
and Oh! they crucified me
and left a cadaver with no head

In Memory of Someone Who Died Alone
In Paris

we work all days
and nights as well
for their hubris to glint
we work all days
we miss the opaque cloudland
the dandelions we once loved
we ostracise ourselves
inside a burrow
to bury the leftovers of ourselves
do they know
do they recall ourselves being human
do we recall being human
when love traversed our path then
hanged itself on a gibbet
yet we are not that weak
we seclude ourselves until we wither
and this is a formula for death by which they shall not consider
us nullifidians
according to all credences and faiths
one night, when alone, as ever
we shall bid the world farewell
unknown, with no identity, until the good hands of charitable men
find us, after weeks and weeks from our silent, insignificant departure
but the good thing is that we worked hard all days
hence, when the day comes for them to find our cadaver
they shall not bother about the expenses of a sepulcher
for we worked all days
and nights as well

Ilhem Issaoui © 2018

Pathetic Existence

such a conundrum is our existence
that in the winter rain does not fall
that our own voice is a deleterious whistle
no longer ours
that we cajole death
we cajole it
with our nakedness
and it refuses us
moribunds gossamery
unworthy of death
O Lethe I beg thee
nothing but a corroded memory

Memories of a Silent Child

our hands
bare, bare hands
that long ago developed some hatred
toward the chalk dust
now regret the belonging to a self deleterious to the skin
was it to tame it
or to allow it to feel what had been fleeting and unfelt
that inspired the idea of cutting oneself
during the happiest ephemeral moments of inauthentic living
or a reminder
"this is not aeonian"
a dulcet moment among all the deceiving moments
how inauthentic to whelve the self in a nest with hays
we know its provenance
outside you
a mummery and a ceaseless cajoling
o dormant awareness of a pale child
and a banging of heads
against boards and floors
and a disfigured child
who moans in sotto voce

Ilhem Issaoui © 2018