Cycle

One thousand and seven hundred and quelque
A woman gave birth à la caesarean.
The cutting motion became her son’s name.
The Miqdad.

He who was ” untimely ripped ” and all that

Soon to be stolen by William and his Hathaway

To whom he bequeathed his bed

Which was used once with lovelessness instead.

Well that was the way that was.

So that one thousand and seven hundred and quelque
His chattel and other become the belongings to him
To wit El Miqdadi.
Which by and by a revolutionary in a British jail in the land in between the two rivers

Mesopotamia
Iraq to you and I
Declared
” Let there be El Miqdadi henceforth “.
And the middle class arse changed the ‘q’ to ‘k’ Because it would be easier
So Mikdadi.

What a boring story.

Like Palestine’s history.

God damn this world for boring us so
And making its game the boredom of the very game.

God damn this world for taking away all our aim

And calling it mercy by any other name.

It was.

It was, that is, until in Gosport town Another revolutionary
Settled down and fell in love
With a Walpole

Of the north folk.

And all history became one Indivisible
Inalienable
And eternal

Bright futures brighter pasts do make

You have used it before you damn fake

But it’s true
Believe me my little – – –

Brighter futures brighter pasts do make.

Categorised in: Article

This post was written by Faysal Mikdadi