Insurmountable Defeat

Riding a mulish horse

Arrogantly unyielding,

Though fed and nurtured

By your own hand and passion.

A compeer in the long road,

Hardly compassionate,

Barely listener,

Comparatist in the looks,

Superlative in behaviour,

Is like crossing a northern storm,

In swimming wear,

Is like crossing the sea,

On a surfing board,

And yet,

Decorated with your best hometown landscape.

It is like crossing the desert on your

Onewheel-Pint-Electric-Skateboard – Sand,

And yet sand is one of its components.

It is like a boy,

Riding a flat bicycle,

For 20 long and slow miles,

To pass his exam.

It is like a gorgeous girl,

Studying a lot,

Working a lot,

And yet, she is fixed in beauty and use.

It is like drying the water of a flooding sea.

It is like continuously watering the desert,

Waiting for your tree.

Too great to overcome,

Admit your defeat,

See it as it is,


Insufferable a ride.

Others cannot dream of more than an easy plate of rice,

Wait for their series,

BBC’s Harlots,

To be compassionate,

To ride the ‘unknown’,

To devour the harlots’ flesh,

To conquer and possess

The innocence of virginity,

Preserved innocently for long,

To be sold in a fleeing minute,



On a master’s table.

The defeat has been always the same,

As death,



Free horse before capture
Water and wait for your tree in the desert
Insurmountable defeat

No Glory in His Death

When one dies,

Nothing will get them back,

Their words are used




Their memory fades away with time,

Washes their ashes with rain,

Leaving a shallow pain,

Got forgotten

As soon as gone,

‘coz people cry for their own loss,

Not losing them,

Fear that same cold place,

That cold corpse,

That cold place,

Fear the unknown,

Shutting their sight

In a long cold night.

Born to die,

Though slowly,

Tear by tear,

Drop by drop,

Tear by tear,

That is your lone fear,

Too stifling silence to bear.

But he who made that void,

Lived for vanity,

Lived shamelessly


Sought eternity

Betrayed paternity.

I sought your hand on my head,

I saw you in every dad,

I forced you in all men,

I loved you in them now and then,

I was the easy to offend,

The Fatherless one,

The worthless child,

Never enough by myself,

Until one day,

I opened my mental door

And cast you for good away.

But then, he made his silent exit,

More useless

A futile exit, without words,

From both sides.

I want to shout:

Creep with no dignity

You were dead in life,

Today double-dead.

The Fatherless One
No one could fill that void
Fatherless Featherless

A man on Seven Horses

1707, Rosalind lived in a mountain giant foot

The northern suburbs of an extension of a sheltering forest

She hated berries but only berries she had to eat

Such a small and pulpy wild fruit

Rounded and brightly coloured,

Sweet, sour in straw-blue-black

Likely red, for her tastes bad

Mum sang “Blueberries raw or baked in a pie;

Blueberry cobbler, muffins or juice;

It matters not the form I enjoy;

Blueberries keep me from being blue.”

At 17, never saw a man nor a horse

Before she first sang,

“When Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my Gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the Grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The Gods that wanton in the Air,
Know no such Liberty.”

Cavalier verses inflames her virtues

When a Horseman rode and stood

To adorn her strawberry lips with his sweet song

That bronze young man on a stallion

Three powers in one,

Youth, arch and a horse

a song from the heart

that keeps the oath for more than one life.

2017, Charlotte eats a Mac,

Dates on a machine

Utters erotic syllables for 7 men,

Kisses all of them, only for the 7th day

Loves the man who comes to her on 7 horses.

Berry Forest, cradle of Love
A Man on 7 Horses

Il Marciume

A 16 anni

Sognavo con Anna, Enza e Manel

Un ragazzo snello

Forte con i capelli

Lievemente lunghi

Ma neri

Gli occhi marroni miele

Parla inglese

Canta rock

Teneri labra

Risate rimbalzando dal cuore

Pulito chiaro

Che sogno

Bello e attraente

Luca o Leo

Ma tu sei chiama to il “marciume”

E io sono testarda

Ti amo più

Di Leo, Luca e Aldo

Selvaggio orgoglioso

Forte e gentile

E per te sono il mondo

Soldi non tieni

Promesse mute

E amori senza sillabe






Washed away

Swells wash away

Soul’s agony

Waves blow



A feathered beach

Shelters and soothes


Time waned

As I froze

All that bemused me

Was either to shut my sight

And enhance its hissing

Kissing say

Or lose no sound no sketch

A sweet bemusement

Shining bright Brighton

On my grey canvas

Painted off a British sky.

Real picture
Bewilderment and Peace


300 likes and me

Can make the difference

300 Spartans defeated Persia

Persia came on elephants

Upskilled rhinoceros

Bold black horses

Bronze knights

Gilded armature

Heavily pierced Xerxes

Mythical creatures

On a grey and black canvas

Men in red

300 mighty kings and

Lusty Leonidas together

Erect a peerless wall

Built up in patient

passionate composure

Colours clashed

Les rouges against les noirs

Clung and bunged at odds

Colossal equestrians

Stupendous fiery fighters

Beauty unmatched.

300 of comrades in verse

Similar though diverse

Utter words as swords

Link up in likes

Tacit makers.

300 thanks
Sword guardian
Words sharp as swords

My book

Two Questers in Twentieth-century North Africa: Paul Bowles and Ibrahim Alkoni breaks new ground in its comparative exploration of the work of American expatriate author Paul Bowles and exiled Libyan author Ibrahim Alkoni: it is, to my knowledge, the first full-length comparative treatment of these two authors. The book makes a powerful rebuttal of Western […]

My book