Children of Babylon


In whose name have you come to be my protectorate?
From this distance your eyes may be beautifully blue,
but are obscured by those dark tinted glasses.

Finger on the trigger peering down, your weighty
sandy boots and heavy clothing (not apt for this climate
and my neighbourhood) is not intimidating at all.

I slightly freeze and am muted by wonder actually.
What really bothers me is the lack of regard
as a human being.  An embrace, a kiss, a hug –

Or pick me up and swing me round
so I laugh like a hyena as children do living
in your country.  Even the rising smoke bellowing

from the blasted rubble satanic birds scatter
with their indiscriminate load, and the close proximity
of wailing incantations of my neighbour’s grief

no longer perturbs me. I am muted by years of chaos.
What really bothers me is the lack of regard

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the feedback
is awe inspiring –

aside the filters
that alter natural

femme fatale opens
her options wide

the nautical direction –
no liars no cheats

must be over 4 feet tall
must be working

& have own home –
drugs is a no no

must be driving –
and if i don’t respond

then you’re probably
not my type!


the Rasta gave him rain tree seeds
to keep in his pocket at all times –

paranoid peeping from curtains,
perceiving foes & another long night

it had just gone 12 & hearing voices
again at the window he retreated,

posturing on a Persian mat,
the tealights flickering shadows –

he picked up the תּוֹרָה & started
to read –

falling star

more drugs less guns
some vouch for that

when i got home,
the beats altering

it was peace and peace
until loud bangs!

head tilted right
glancing through

rectangular mirrors
it’s like midnight blues.

spotlights sparse
and spattered

the hung trees
spookily camouflaged

in the twinkling nigh,
a distraction maybe

random fireworks –
but how am i to know.


a proud moment attending with the Lord Mayor weighed down
by his heavy ceremonial chain in the banquet hall as he presented
her with two contour glasses for 25 years of government service.

her mother look puzzled, grabbed one and held it up
to the chandelier and flicked it. then she wet her finger
and gently swiped around the rim. not a sound. she frowned.
whatever happened to the carriage clock?

like art

among other slight possessions
that will outlive me is
the rubber plant in cream pot
sat upon the plastic window sill.

the ficus elastica shades
beaver fruit bowl filled
with tough lemons and oranges
brimming shine lost.

beyond the glass a Fir
forever green 80 feet tall
rooted in the grass. a man
walks past the chestnut
bricked loading bay quaint
in the background.

a magpie darts on its way
and the black bird sneaks
in the shrub.

i would like to name this tree
lime baby leaves springing forth –
if i google it i may paint
like art = a better picture

meanwhile –

Khwajah Piruz خواجه پيروز

The beginning of Spring coincides with Easter and the Iranian New Year of Nowruz.


Many of you don’t know me.
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Mazdayasnian Fire Keeper,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

Cleanness rebuffs all evil.
Purge the home, paint the walls, spruce the garden.
‘Khane Tekani’ is essential –
And annual visitations common.

They nourish the growth of your sabzeh,
That slept during cold winter days.
Now lentils, barley and wheat abounding,
Your ancestors’ wishes purveyed.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Many of you don’t know me,
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Khwajah is Lord, Piruz victorious,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

I probably came from Mogadishu,
Though this is not the mainstream view.
Marauding Arabs conquered the Persians,
Then changed my name to ‘Hajji Firuz.’

Don’t confuse me with Bilal al Rabah,
The Meccan, the black muzzein.
My origins…

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