Sometimes we run restless




We live present.
 
سلاما على من تطرقوا الموت وعادوا أطيافاً
 
We know it.
 
                   and in the rush,       we lament
 
fugitively                    against your
                                                 edgings
 
*
 
Today I saw ghost-ling trees
 
and they spoke so vividly through the fog
 
on roots    
            and groundings
 
The archons come
                     to                 claim  
 
but the roots are too stubborn that only water can go through
 
to ground
                                                                        our  re/turn 
 
to visions of living    far from us that      
 
                         claim our anger (we rejoice in anger)
 
and the feel-s of it rush too much
 
             like lavender or
 
          cardamom pods deep soaked in water…

*
 
                         We live present.
 
سلاما على من تطرقوا الموت وعادوا أطيافاً
 
We know it.
 
                   and in the rush,       we lament
 
fugitively                    against your
                                                    edgings
 
 
 
 

Everyday, home-streets






Sometime to escape the rush to understand

fragments of complex inscriptions                   pour in

                                                        between

          conscriptions of words 

weaved intricately to formulate a space 

of an unsolidified memory

c

o

n

s

u

m

e

d

in every     way.

In-between the letters resides the violence;

                 formed/deformed.

I have no interest

                                in knowing

I have all desires

                    for              seeking…

(disruptions, mainly we seek disruptions and resonance and flow)

empty corners filled with faces uttering:

                                             (in the interlude)

any change pleas/pleads;

   normalized/ shadowed.  

*

S told me today he won’t make it to his mother’s death; money will not come through

Y asked me about the exhibition I went to and we versed on the times when art was ours to feel  

P thought I was meant to soak more in sunshine; oh no oh no I’m going pale again

D was not there nor was their dog….

anxieties of lapses and voids.

Recite a verse or two.

Everyday living overpowers:

                                            know now know now know now!!!!!

but the streets in their shadows come to move less

              only this time, evoking

more monsters.

‘Only whisper it. They won’t like it’ they usually tell me:

                                                   I have mourned the living that you’re destined to. 

To preach living, and so

I archive a flower today

                                       and re          pave

Repave repave repave…

Shaimaa Abdelkarim @shaimabdelkarim  is a PhD student mostly researching into the resistant and idiosyncratic desires of legalists and human rights activists. She is currently into archives and memory narrations.