A serene cottage upon a dreary hillside
  Where my mind's listless galaxy of neurons
Synapse in the absolute darkness,
  Is painted in Victorian hues, cold and haunting.

Dejection rains down from the leeward sky
  With nothing harkened save for the ocean's
Stormy roar and a desolate lighthouse,
  Beckoning through the fog and memoirs of the past.

The deeper my soul is carved out with sorrow,
  The deeper the hollow can be filled with joy.
But alas, I feel nothing of joy but only a void
  Left by the dagger of yesterday's darkening tragedies.

I feel the rain soothe my skin and kiss my cheek
  Like the sweetest lover on midnight's embrace,
Yet my moth-eaten quilt of memories only seems
  Enough to shelter our legs but ne'er our feet.

My heart feels the warmth of an autumn fire,
  Kindling in the crisp rain, bleeding beneath
A rose where we burn in the endless torture
  Of our own despondence.

I can feel the blood in my veins turning to fire
  As I imagine her fingertips unzipping my spine
As though it were full of secrets and mysteries
  Unbeknowst to myself...

I can feel the inferno that rages within my aortic arch
  Every moment I imagine losing myself within her
Eyes, glimmering like an eclipse over a midnight
  Sea...the Sleepless Coventry.

She unlocks my secrets and weaves them in the bouquet
  Of tendrils in her hair like ribbons of crimson and light,
Waving in the vehement northerlies with numbing scents
  Of argan and spice.

Her body is but a canvas wrapped neatly around a
  Paper mache skeleton, the most beautifully tragic
Foundation known to humanity...
  
She arrives right on the equinox to set fire to my sorrow,
  Intoxicating me with her kiss and infecting me with her smile.

And so enters the conflagration of my soul,
  An annihilation of light, blackening my coronary
Artery whilst shooting smoke through my cinnamon
  Whiskey tainted veins.

'Tis hard to look through such a misconstrued lens
  As such, the Vena Cava Kaleidoscope...
Where the flames burn through the galaxy of neurons
  Expending the harrowing memories as its fuel.

I can see the magnetic alloy of her Cobalt eyes reflecting
  The fire that consumes me from the inside out.
She pulls on me like the moon pulls upon the tide
  As she whispers with her soft, enamored sigh.

I burn in my silent knowing, my liquid mind
  Awakening in fervor and strange euphoria.

I burn for the Aurora Infinite.

It's the scent of
sunscreen and Argan oil
in your hair and
the softness of a pillow
beneath your head.
The dilation of your brown eyes
staring up into the white stucco.
Remembering the old days
as they were.
When the sand of our bodies
told the difference in time,
chasing us towards the edge
of the water.
"I miss the tall grass," you said
pulling a reed up from the earth.
"I miss looking down into the water
and seeing both our feet,"
but as clear as it was then
where little fish and turtles swam
the future was never coherent
as we thought.
Because the grains that fell
from our skin
represented more than us.
It was life slipping from our hands
When we were young and tanned.
It's what we do when
looking for it
'Time can tell a lot of things,'  I whisper
Realizing,
what I've lost.

I bathe myself in preparation
Suds of lavender & honey
lathered over my smooth summer skin
I even shave
just for you
Moroccan oil pours over my scalp
exfoliating extra well behind the ears
ah the ears
my favorite spot
Gently dry off
Making sure not to miss any spots
above the knee
where usually a stubble island lingers
make sure the *******
are like starfruit
ready for your suckling
Lather cocoa butter
on elbows and around neckline
sensual, a paradise for you
My argan oil tresses, your palm trees
drown lashes in bat black
curl them upward towards cloudy head
I pinch already flushed cheeks
nice and baby doll pink, just the way you like it
All the while staining lips vamp scarlet
so that you may think their sole purpose
on my face is for
circling around your ****
I tweeze brows into crescent moons
over a Bette Davis eye sky
And I won't dare forget to bleach each pearly tooth
picket fence white
So when I flash my counterfeit grin
a twinkle may appear
and blur the emptiness
lurking between both corners
Now for the *****, bra pairing
of course midnight lace and twin
You, my dear get to unwrap this body of mine
How will you choose what to unravel first?
******* or ****?
Decisions. Decisions.
All of it for your
heartbreaking ***** machismo

I arrive,
just as those perfect hands
of your clock
strike the moment you wanted them to
You dine
licking your fingers after each dish
You breathe cigarette breathe
Your pungent odor wreaks over my body
as yours climbs aboard
Hair, greasy hamburger follicles
Skin, porous with choking chemicals
And there is nothing to unwrap
nothing for me to find
Except an empty chest
The gold had been in my pockets the whole time
I must bathe you off.

I stayed

When I knew you were burying me
Convinced myself I loved the smell
Of the earth you piled over my grave
“Sometimes you have to get your hands *****” I laughed
I wasn’t the only one laughing

When I came to see you last
I didn’t know I had invited myself to a funeral
You didn’t close my eyes
You didn’t cover me in the funeral shroud
Neglected to inform me
I had died
“Miskeena”* they said

There wasn’t much of a crowd that day
You said you tried, you really did
The mourners reassured you
You did, you really did
Bisous, bisous*

You left without saying my final rites
But the water, snow, and hail
Washed my body clean without you
And I adorned my own body in white  

By chance
If you see me again, please don’t be startled
I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how pretty I am
For a corpse

And when you come close
Don’t expect a stench or a rotten tongue
My skin would make the argan trees weep with joy
Yes, I smell just as good as I used to

You should have already known that I’m the kind of girl who can grow flowers
Even in a grave.


-Norah Khardaji

Leaning against the shadow
of self, starting the
monologue. With the fall
I don't want to think of the other.

The beasts.
I give a call, to someone
over there,
who will listen.

A systematic peel, opens
the doorless cage and
sets free the malignancy―

to spread. Now multiple argan
failure, stares at you,
celebrating the anniversary
of the ****.

We are made up of
charcoal, writing on the walls
with dark fingers―
name of the victim.

oil in skin products
Morocco's national tree
argan oil for hair

Le poème éploré se lamente ; le drame
Souffre, et par vingt acteurs répand à flots son âme ;
Et la foule accoudée un moment s'attendrie,
Puis reprend : « Bah ! l'auteur est un homme d'esprit,
Qui, sur de faux héros lançant de faux tonnerres,
Rit de nous voir pleurer leurs maux imaginaires.
Ma femme, calme-toi ; sèche tes yeux, ma soeur. »
La foule a tort : l'esprit c'est le coeur ; le penseur
Souffre de sa pensée et se brûle à sa flamme.
Le poète a saigné le sang qui sort du drame ;
Tous ces êtres qu'il fait l'étreignent de leurs noeuds ;
Il tremble en eux, il vit en eux, il meurt en eux ;
Dans sa création le poète tressaille ;
Il est elle ; elle est lui ; quand dans l'ombre, il travaille,
Il pleure, et s'arrachant les entrailles, les met
Dans son drame, et, sculpteur, seul sur son noir sommet
Pétrit sa propre chair dans l'argile sacrée ;
Il y renaît sans cesse, et ce songeur qui crée
Othello d'une larme, Alceste d'un sanglot,
Avec eux pêle-mêle en ses oeuvres éclôt.
Dans sa genèse immense et vraie, une et diverse,
Lui, le souffrant du mal éternel, il se verse,
Sans épuiser son flanc d'où sort une clarté.
Ce qui fait qu'il est dieu, c'est plus d'humanité.
Il est génie, étant, plus que les autres, homme.
Corneille est à Rouen, mais son âme est à Rome ;
Son front des vieux Catons porte le mâle ennui.
Comme Shakspeare est pâle ! avant Hamlet, c'est lui
Que le fantôme attend sur l'âpre plate-forme,
Pendant qu'à l'horizon surgit la lune énorme.
Du mal dont rêve Argan, Poquelin est mourant ;
Il rit : oui, peuple, il râle ! Avec Ulysse errant,
Homère éperdu fuit dans la brume marine.
Saint Jean frissonne : au fond de sa sombre poitrine,
L'Apocalypse horrible agite son tocsin.
Eschyle ! Oreste marche et rugit dans ton sein,
Et c'est, ô noir poète à la lèvre irritée,
Sur ton crâne géant qu'est cloué Prométhée.

Paris, janvier 1834.