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