White blossom in March. Black sky.
White blossom against a black March sky.
No gods came.
Pigs, fat on our blood.

Wired in a crouch in the blue-dark I eat the death of my kin.
Pigs feast on my hunger, amber pollen soft on their lips.
Blue light scratches the retina.
The night sea, and the image of the night sea, forgotten.
‘Those who saw the Gorgon have not yet returned to tell about it or have returned mute – the submerged, the complete witnesses’.
You and I have not seen.
You and I have have not seen those who have seen.

I am a/part of/from this body and I have to eat.
Pigs force us to eat our death.
Only gods do not need to eat.
They turn our shit to money.
How many kinds of sweet flower grow in an English country garden?

There’s my father, a baby, his name is help.
My uncle, a child, his name is comrade.
My uncle, a child, his name is patience.
My aunt, a child, her name is precious.
My uncle, a child, his name is king.
There’s their house falling on their heads.

White blossom in March. Black sky.
White blossom against a black March sky.
Blue light scratches the retina.

Pigs made our words mean money, they tapped soft amber from our cells.
Reissued, restored, reanimated, with a new introduction by.
Poignant, unarmed, atheist.
Pigs fat on liberation blahblah seize the transformation of language into action
made our words mean money.

White calla lilies lean indigo in suburban night gardens,
quiet please, extermination in progress.
I will not tend to my wellbeing.
I am a/part of/from that body. I love that body.
Keep your mealtimes, fuck your peace.
Peace is the shit people leave each other in.

Faces in the squares gurn blood-slicked teeth, by the river, wiped drunk.
I went blue among them, smoke-like, disappearing.
The night sea, and the image of the night sea, forgotten.

SUN, seize the planet on its wretched axis
propel us to the coldest reaches.
How many kinds of sweet flower grow in an English country garden?

I had to go where I was known, Whitechapel, Amman.
Red soil, red clay, red fingernails,
green olives, green almonds, green April,
black eyes, black heart, black clouds,
white sky, white hair, white sheets.
Over the salt lake, vibrations.
Planes low and constant.
Silence of mines in the night.

And from the public bridges, and on every face – save some of the family fascists, the bleeding heart bourgeoisie – every wall, every red eye, every bright shoot, غ ز ة

I don’t want to read you my poems anymore.
Poison tea from the poison pot.
The rug-seller’s loom is arrested mid-row, cerulean, turquoise, the night sea, and the image of the night sea, forgotten.
I only want to read to friends now, to friends, to the dead and to the unborn.

Notes

Primo Levi cited in: Irina Sandomirskaja, ‘Derrida on the Poetics and Politics of Witnessing,’, (2011): 247–55.