Upcycled, mixed media artwork by Keely Jane
Five Qasidas of Loneliness
i. the commuter
you step off the railcar, catching your foot,
hands bite gravel as you alightteeth rumbling as the train pushes on,
your toes throb in the frigid nightthe grit crunches, rains down as you stand,
your eyes refocus on urban blight(the papers were calling this station an eyesore)
you squint through a glare of city lights& thank unseen stars the platform's deserted,
left foot's gone numb, but that's alright
ii. the bureaucrat
morning's moon hangs low & shrugs the clouds aside & nothing
you clasp in loving arms endures... it's time you learn:how night's demise bequeaths to you a grand old flow of nothing,
no glistening stream babbles, no river rapids churn—how rosy skies lay kisses on these golden fields of nothing,
no dawn light sheens the plain, no far-off mountains burn—how the migrant flocks descend at sunrise & are nothing
but the poor folk your parish council chides & spurns—so learn to shirk the burden of evicting folks with nothing,
call those city arses down to have a turn
iii. the defendant
you snivel in the high court of impudent fame
where blind mute cherubs blow trumpets of glassyou pray that your plea of not guilty absolves
your crimes of omission (& your social class)so here's where you piss away heartfelt remorse,
your privilege floats belly-up through the morassas you pawn off old scruples for an ersatz hope
to bury blame, to let it slip pasttheir axe-grinding, droning, truth-twisting appeals
while your hands wring a rosary of tarnished brass
iv. the artist
you proclaim the bling of the modern world cowers
before the churned-up energy of your megawatt-hoursyou bleed dry the decadence of tomorrow's art
to distill a plasma that's unseasonably sour& serve it stirred to rebels with a nebulous cause—
your vortex marks the flashpoint of every hour& as it amasses the aura swirling round your face
& neons your manifesto-barking glowerwith amalgams of angles & primal storms,
you mount an urban line-up of microwave towerspulsing to our e-zines & video screens
your razor's-edge profile's boldness & power
v. the altruist
docile, moon-hardened, & lioned by distemper,
brash empath you've always been, chronically forlornnameless, nameless, & nameless again: your strays
are either dead, tamed to a torpor, or yet unbornbut wasn't your compersion reward for you enough—
you reel from your heady summit, incurably forsworn& try to resuscitate the old euphoric feelings, mazing
through the luxuries & amenities you were famed to scorn(so fettered you were to your fate)—but now's too late,
your habits, like your outfits, are threadbare & well worn