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Three gardens and a dead man.


A Man in a Garden

Ther is a man standing in a garden sumware in Spring suspended in the mesolithick
MMMMscour of the A406

not this man – ane mann yoo dipshit – pay attension

all is in balans

ond ðis nat thinkende him on getende eten – theez grasses scuttling from beeks in
MMMMbasking calm:

da wimmen not ȝetting eten or dying in breech birth or getting hem draggd away in
MMMMraiding partiz –

nat wacching hiera menfolk geting clubbd to deth by raiding partiz & draggd away to
MMMMother gardens

a wiman standing in a garden – not this garden! – pay attenshion!

ware all is suffering, not hwetting a weppen hed or waiting for a rayding party.

He has evolvd from rayding other trybz or exchanging pelts & wimen, & he doznt dye
MMMMafter th forth or fifth skirmish

or he cud be a wiman

and now all is buddhi

somware on a plain a lion runs for a bus & has a seezure
w/ its brane infested by wormz

deed az a lovlie baby
deed as crackt flagstanes
henbit ded nettle
toodleloo tulip

or he cd be a woman


A Man on a Train

Ther is a man on a train or on a wiman – a 5 ft civet whoz got her teeth in his throte

or in a garden


he beleevs th bees & gadflyz & th heet ar all rong,
or th beez & gadfliz beleev hine rong, or hie beleev constructivist feminizm impeccabl
sins 1972 –

oder in a loft

da loft, þe moths, þe heet, þe 5 foot civette, hie all beleev hem seperate

þæt trans man on th train thinks its seprat from th statistics that dont suport hire
mental helth or murder – tha statisticks may be ill bred but his hart is in th rite plase

they ar sitting in chairs rezonanses rippeling from brains to other worlds & heerers –

evry wirld knos wat yoo bin up to! –
everything! –
only th cretures next to yu ar clozed

anlie the ardent civet fyȝting the rihtyous bruthers
anli th qweerly separated & begging on trains
anlie the onli


Another Garden

Dere iz a man stepping into a garden in need of a manicur the insecks hovering rank
MMMMw/ spring

a litteral avantgard
dresst in Butlerjugend gere
showting down the unwoked Yids

hit struggels to theorize da histori of þe animal kingdom ware wildabeest & gadfliyz
do nat freely assume rolz – or dismantel da binarizm of hwite devils magickt up from
Hell or Ile of Dogs

or ther is a woman in a garden who shud do sum mowing to escap Þe Wyf

hir memorie of four gay serfs in Wardrobe at þe old Alex, sorting th ransid tihtes of
MMMMda Kirov ballet
wich hadnt been washt sins th seege of Stalingrad,


theyr sharing storiz of bulldyks gaitcrashing th clubs & barging arownd as wannabe
MMMMfrat party rapists,
& anyway

th cheef cween went into a shamanik transe
& conjurs a dyk sitting at home w/ a bowl of beens
& belching & farting in prowd display –

& even as a neofyte to bakstaje w/ all tho gay men nodding in sorrow, heo wunders
MMMMhire How do they
kno thats hwat bulldyks do

Dere is a man or a bulldike or a remote controld wyf
hiding in a loft from the Butlerjugend
or th wyf

hoo seeks to explod owt of the dustbowls
of her hairie snatch & colonize the jahiliyya
of Hell or the Ile of Dogs

fyting for the riht for societie to turn them into eqwaly petrifyd bricks in a wal


This Poem is Dead

A man w/ matching socks & a car is a ded thing
a father is dedd on a page bedizennd

a baby is a mute subject
an object to a subject mother –
an object dezideratum

waht theez wirds do is ded – baby MMMMMwyf MMMMMslap MMMMMlove

overlit in daytym sope

Yr grapheme is a ded saynt

her haysaity thusly must

theeze poitries ar dedd

thoz heroick revivalists of th deen
brake open th seeds

this singing is a Brooderz whale tracking sardeenes a ded metafor in mysteerius deeps

did yoo tel me – This is dedd – yes its dedd, deed as Anglo Saxon,

deed az poetrie finickt in cloysters
atemporal lyric rocking yu beddy byes

all in th chain of historie mad flesh – Heygel Groucho Gadafi

the connectif is sparkless yr grammer is ded, its all ded

yr ecopoetiks ar ded, yr gannets ar ded, my liver is canselld

look at it this way, in a hundred yers hooz gonna giv a shit –

look at yoo, yore dying, Im dying, wy shudnt my langwij be dedd

if ye look at a poetiks as ded, hey, I got news for yoo, IT SCHYLE BE DED – & if yu
MMMMlook at lif as a
historical document then wil yoo find an affadavit for socializm

& my children dedd.

My fledgling got pownded in the coffee froth of sownds & crawld bak to shor to dye.

See it for wat it is – a fashist Paradice.

My cildern ar deed, th treez ar deed, the deezel car is ded, th Grand Unifyed Theorie is
MMMMded, dedd as
clozure, ded is clozure, ded is dedd

a cild a marrij a cow a rotari club all dedd consepts
a cild ded on a page a marrig beried in paper –

ded as this
a poem experiensd thruȝ Merlo Ponty

its raining now – wat ar yu doing owtsid?

Khaled Hakim is the author of Letters from the Takeaway (Shearsman 2019; reviewed by Peter Riley here) and The Book of Naseeb (Penned in the Margins 2020). He is a practising Sufi and Sufi musician.

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