New Baghdad

i have a devil on my shoulder...


1. the cartographer


there's meandering lanes and small roads that lead to the heart of the matter

there are trees and beaches that swill and throw foam like beer bubbles

the cartographer sits on a rock crafting your ways

the faint blue veins like rivers that travel down your arms

the deltas in your eyes that are bloodshot from sadness and insomnia

the curvature of your cheeks and head

the cascade of dark hair so dense and beautiful 

the cliff face of your shoulder blades leading climbers into the abyss 

the crook of your back that acts as a ledge

the cartographer also maps your actions slowly with delicacy

the river of blood that flows from your wrist as you saw away with a short razor

the grimace on your face, exposing white teeth like hills of horror biting down and grinding

like glaciers

the tears that drip down slowly and flavour your mouth with salty pity and bitter anger

the choked cry that erupts like thunder, rising from within like a tsunami

he rises from his seat and sees the wave of sound

scamper, scamper up that hillock

run for the hills but not these hills

they are no place for a map-maker or explorer

the city gates gape as he stumbles in, notebook open

pen in his ear, eyes wild and spirit floating with wild fever.

Welcome to New Baghdad. 

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