Midnight Brought This

Dear Mr. Binladden,

Osama, the killer,

the terrorist undercover,

whatever.

I write to the man beneath the above names,

the man above and within the above blames.

Be he Devil, vigilante, stone-cold killer,

I write as a neutral, a distant observer.

I have read of your country

and I have read of your pains.

I have known of your doings

and I have known of your claims.

The facts, cold, considered, lit up

across the

World's headlines.

Infamous. Celebrity. Pin-up.

Idiot.

Your country is crumbling to dust 'neath your feet.

The Taliban marching through blood, sweat and shit.

None of their own.

Hazaran bone.

Rubble, rubble, more dust to dust.

Hidden beneath a Berka's veils,

sweeping your prints from hidden trails,

your Greatest Sin,

burns within.

Your ability to do nothing,

Mr. Osama Binladden.

Unclothed

Ink and paper,
Dust and water,
Bare necessities.

Ye cover yourselves,
in the corpses of plants long dead.
Or if not
then in synthetic fibres, as false as the images they invoke.
As unreal as the person attempted.
Shadows with mouths, burning in the crowds.

No natural state of being,
No bare skin to be feeling.

Unintentional inunendo.
But you see my point.
Why not try it my way?

Step out of the stitches, break free of the seams,
work from within fabric, push the boundaries.

It's the way to be.
Come dear, dance with me.

My First Blog

My first steps, like my first words, like my first blog, is unlikely to make any sense.

Nor will any that follow.

Which is fine, I suppose, considering this is a release for me (In the style of a few wonderful people before me).

So enjoy, laugh at, with or beyond. Don't cry, that's silly.

Bon apetite :)