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By Kean Ghiero


If you like this is just the preface of our story the hors d'oeuvre of a feast the prelude of a piece of music the preamble of a short poem the chirping of a bird a new dawn if you like.


You cannot ignore them they come back to you they follow you they want justice they want your head they want your tears they want to make you remember remember they do not want to hear your excuses

they do not want to hear your reasons they are going to teach you a lesson from your past they are going to make you remember remember you made them those ghosts those ghosts can tell you should know well they are your mistakes.


She will come as She wants, where She wants She will come at any time dressed as She likes She is unpredictable She will throw her arms around you then solemnly She will kiss your life good-bye.


Slacking off on the bed as the night abates, I point my nose at dawn and thank you for your love. I hear airplanes roaring in the sky, cars hissing, scooters fizzling by on the street below

it is the small show of this

small town brightened verbatim by this flickering light. I am trapped in an old aching body I cannot escape as it dies cowardly in an amorphous way while I say thank you while I say goodbye while the world is coming your way.


Understand that I am the one that puts words in the beak of the birds settled on the windowsill. I am the one that takes clouds for a walk on pink mountains that sing and swing. I am the one that sails as a ship on the waves of your mind and slips sweetly out of sight. I am the one that creates the poet, his glory and lives on even long after he is gone.


I am flipping you have caught me now you can fry me battered and floured I am a little fish of the sea I will not slip out of your hands you can boil me steam me chew me as sushi raw chopped in pieces garnished

with lemon and parsley a drizzle of oil bake me roast me skewed on a barbeque call all your friends let’s party any time any day do what you want but don’t throw me back


All in all it is not important what to get or how to get it. It is not important what you have or have not. What matter most, which makes the difference, is what you want. So, please, don’t listen to nonsense even the illiterates

write their beautiful love stories. Adventures, romances, tragedies, anyone writes the novel of his life, each book is then quickly delivered to Mrs. Death, who puts it on the long spiral shelf in the room of oblivion.


Last night, this emptiness was just too much. Freedom was disembowelled on TV screens. I felt this familiar malaise deep inside my stomach. Alienated, I wrote a nasty comment and walked out the door. I began to walk only, to see if I was free to do it but, I knew I could not go far. The city was gleaming with

enigmatic coloured dots of light, big enough for me to get lost. I stood at a shop window to see what was on sale, and then sitting in a bar, I ordered a tea... Today, the debauched show is still rotting like a cadaver under the sun, but, I am surrendering to this emptiness, so peacefully.


While dogs chase the hare through the snow falling on earth as cold dust that chafes my eyes, the revolution against repression continues to plough the fields of time with the aching truth. The inequitable golden silence is an intricate puzzle that connotes our fate while dreams explode soundlessly wrapped in a cold wintery day, just a poem is a circumstance for me to say: Happy Christmas dissident.


After a short blast of peace everything has returned to norm the trees are in bloom the phone doesn’t ring the mailbox is empty the war is on the jet fighter planes are airborne the laser guided missiles the nuclear disaster the bombs the tombs the terrorists the knife at the throat as they retaliate as

they surgically strike as some deploy troops as some take their toll as many more military boots sink in the sand as many more orphans are bawling their eyes out as I hold my chin thinking of someone I once knew as a dragonfly hovers on the surface of the water buzzing lost in midair as you sit alone reading great poetry as a flying bird who doesn’t know that he is flying.

R. I. P.

Rust in Paranoia, no matter how silent and motionless, you remain in your dark corner, you will feel it seeping through the walls, snubbing you daily, while you drink coffee from a mug, standing in the static mist, rambling to your shadow, your ephemeral friend. Rust in Paranoia, ambushed by the same old vile certainties, fears slashing through your mind, smoother than a knife through butter, you smile to the mirror when another sultry day is in its grave. Yes, you are clever, but, you will still get caught.


It is a dark period, withdrawn in a hole like an old famished spider darning a web, sketching streets of rivers, trains of desires, assembling moments over the hills, like Picasso at Guernica. I use soothing words, diluted in good feelings, clearly unworthy, nobody needs them, so, is it

only art? In any case, my black ink flows like paint on a canvas, perhaps, one day to be seen hung in the Tate Gallery or perhaps, not...


When, there are no more opponents for an old fighter, alone, sheltered in his den, living on bitter regrets, counting days, minutes, seconds, throwing punches in the air, ducking under gusts of winds, fuelling his passion, frantically. He trains for the last fight, lifting weight with his mind, just the way I write this poem,

in a blaze of vainglory. He waits for the bell to ring, ring, ring, ring that one more time, while, inside his head hears the inexorable thumping of a mad clock stuck on the same hour: TWO LATE TOO LATE 02. LATE...


NEVER worry. It is NEVER the case, NEVER convenient, NEVER necessary. NEVER mind. It is NEVER good enough, NEVER on time, NEVER important. It NEVER fails. It is always so. It NEVER ends.


I have no problems for your late replies. I have been busy, writing a lot, too much, my eyes have become two boiled eggs and still‌ I cannot approach the computer screen, where we meet virtually. It feels like a neon sunlamp, a microwave, the blood vessels in my eyes have exploded hyperbolically. I look like a radioactive zombie, high on polonium, a sleepless

embryo of death in gestation and still… I write; it is the usual ploy to see a sunny day on the hills of pain. The tree of knowledge sprouts regrets; on its trunk ants climb, heroically chirping birds perch on branches where dreams bloom, grow, mature then wilt on a field where it’s always spring and poems bloom like tulips all year round… Here, there is a bunch for you!


The big self swims in deep waters, unseen, sometimes, surfacing like a whale to spout.

If, it surfaces too often, it means, it is an oily trout.


Fred, relax, death’s throes will go on for some time. The little man as ever will get it in the neck. This monumental struggle is the war to end all wars, seen from here, it is not so tragic. In this badly casted cabaret show, you have

pictured me right: I am here, writing, writing, writing... not tired, yet. You are in London, a nice city. I know it well. It has many ways to make you happy, the one to leave, worked well for me....


Sometimes, it is just one thought controlling the mind, days, nights, for years, draining it, domineering. Nothing enters. Nothing escapes. Nothing changes. One killer, garrotting your life on your orders.


Ready like a pebble on the shore, washed down in the timeless flow of a roistering river, twisted by waves of events and thoughts. Fallen as a scarlet leaf curled at the feet of

twilight, idly ignoring what is coming next. Waiting like a wet cloth hanging on the line, exposed to the elements, drying, enjoying the breeze.


There was a pleasant stench of decay in the room. The walls were painted in a shade of sadness filled with pigments of boredom. In the dark corner from a laced web a spider watched, waiting patiently. I buzzed around a man writing a poem and left through the window.

Finally, I wrote something worth ink and paper: my last testament.



Poems by Kean Ghiero


Poems by Kean Ghiero