the greensun blog

Question

By Dima Dima

Who stole your thunder?

Who raided your path?

Who quelled your hunger

With morsels of wrath?

Who showed you the ether

Herded you to hell?

You burnt with fever

With no story to tell?

I raided the pantries

I kicked in the doors

I shouted from belfries

Sang songs of war

I earned all the wages

True wages of sin

To dwell in these cages

And die from within

Our hearts are all empty

Our fists are still numb

Conscience feels hefty

We know not whats to come

Blade cuts through darkness

That finger to the sky

Of fire we couldnt harness

Judgement from on high

We are damned each day

Siring words unmeasured

Adoring every way

Useless things we treasure

Abomination

By Dima Adam Dima

They are bolts of lightning racing through the clouds and wet air, famished of all calm, charged with insanity.

Destined to race through their trajectory and into oblivion.

They have seen enough to tire and commiserate and then even tire of that.

Send God word that they beg for His forgiveness between now and the time it takes the ocean to turn into rain then into herbs and then into saliva.

They repent because they tire of pretending to be a human being, and not because they are anything but…

That they no longer will to hide that they are a blade, serrated and red hot in a world full of butter.

Perhaps they would never dream of hurting you, yet they do so in their waking hours.

The silver shadow that glides over tarmac on a dull day, carrying gloom like this prized fragile gift to the world at the end of the road.

And even they tire of wishing it wasn’t so,

Each time they reach into their slowly beating heart and find hope, they wonder why mercy has never lived there.

Now, all the things they do shall send them to the eternal fire.

And they know.

And everything they were given might to build, they taught themselves to destroy.

And they know.

With rage and resentment, they folded morality into a menu they could point at and order from

Forgive them for even when they said that which was not true, they told it to bring joy and not simply to carry lies!

And each time they fought against every bit of their nature, they began to die, and the world began closing to them.

Because they worship the divine fist that’s supposed to break apart walls and pour light into their bleeding dank gloom

The raging fist that never comes to save them,

Though they wait.

When they step back to see the world, they are only made cowardly by their own sighs.

But they were always on the fringes, they the sullied by pride and fear and delusion in a world that they had hoped would set itself straight.

They did not become warriors to seek justice but because they were born with the chaos humanity craved so intensely.

Now as they stand over a thousand kilometres from where they once were

And only their absence speaks. And it shouts much louder than their presence ever did.

Transcendence

By Dima Adam Dima

I dreamt of dying last night.

Violently tearing asunder from my sternum to the top of my head

Dissolving into the raging gale

Like powder, like smoke, like sprayed water over the unwilling faces of my enemies

So, they may turn me into a part of them with each horrid gasp.

I dreamt that I infected them in my final act of defiance.

That every bit of me that remained charged with a sliver of strength grappled into their core to turn their hearts bile like and palpitating like radios in a bachelor’s home in the heart of the slum

Through the howling night, into the morning straight into a fresh batch of darkness

I dreamt that when they sought comfort in the bosoms of their wives and whores, that I felt that moist tenderness…

I was the part that eagerly seeped out of creased foreheads, taut bellies, and rigid members.

I tasted them as they tasted me.

I dreamt, last night that after I was spent, and with each lethargic groan, my hate diminished as did my love.

My soul grew into theirs and into hers and into anyone they loved that loved them back.

Then my pain was forgotten and so was my reason for a reckoning

And salvation spoke to me through a foe’s tired broken heart.

And transcendence trumpeted and blared in imperceptible frequencies.

Then and only then was my death true

Then and only then could I be birthed once more.

I am done

By Dima Adam Dima

I need to be there now in that moment that feeds on my flesh.

In the moment that awakens all possibility

Of dying and transitioning

Of hovering over a pit of the ungrateful dying and dead

Of the living who have forgotten their ability to awaken

I need to be there now where transcendence means as much as a discarded plastic bottle.

Rolling around in the dirt and spinning in the dust

Seething in heat and drowning in the rain but never wearing out

To plough into moments where my sanity measures up as currency

For elevation of the spirit…of the body

Into the moment of adherence and absolute disobedience

I can’t be here anymore.

I’m done with this lot.

I’m done with this stage; I’m done with this plain

I’m done with this flesh as it is.

I’m done with the way your hand feels when it rests upon my head.

I’m done with the truth you told me that was written in a book.

That rolled off the tongue of a child of God too easily.

And then was heard and spoken and heard and bastardized and adulterated.

And reinterpreted, repackaged, and repurposed to finally suit the decree of you kings and queens and your betters who then sent you the way of my forefathers…and my way.

I’m done with this place where I know too much.

I’m done with this excessive comfort.

I’m done with this unnerving silence.

I’m done with this unfathomable envy.

I’m done with these ridiculous earthly things that I deserve and the logic that ties them to my person in the name of ownership.

I am done sons and daughters, I am done.

I am done with the sun. I am done with the moon. I am done with the rain. I’m done with the clouds. I’m done with the fires. I am done with the earth.

I am done sons and daughters. I am truly and completely done.

Building The City

By Dima Adam Dima

It started like a seed buried underneath the mass of dirt of some tiny nameless village.

Crawling sideways, upwards, seeking heaven

It found light by way of the first concrete foundation.

Cured by dirty water and the sweat of a dozen hungry masons.

And brought up not by fortitude or some idyllic dream,

But as a child of necessity, that all-encompassing complement to entropy

Or at least the thing that precedes it…and feeds it.

And needs us to be fruitful.

Soon after the first roof covered it, it burgeoned sideways like a maze seeking warm bodies to inhabit it.

Seeking us: the hungry as its prime vector

Whispering to us that we should seek beauty.

But what about when there was none to be found?

Were we not to settle for comfort?

One day, when we had lost ourselves in this creation that first begot our desire to create it.

And we could bear the emptiness of the toil no more,

and all we could do was hop from one den of iniquity to another.

We found the exact poison that might just kill the sickness within us,

And us along with it.

Pristine pathways felt our staggered trudges and drank our acrid urine.

And through those cloistered alleyways that turned men into beasts, we were made free of our hope, currency, and our dignity.

But we were free at least,

Free enough to sniff the bliss of forgotten pain.

And numb at the scars and the glove of callouses that our palms had become sheathed in.

Soon all that was left was uncertainty and shame,

And even more shame

So much shame that it couldn’t be hidden amidst the multiplying mesh of concrete foliage.

We rushed to bury it beneath fresh cabro paths and layers upon layers of nauseatingly fresh tarmac.

This sin is what finally unified us.

This was how we tore off the sheath of our souls by our own hands,

Side by side we stood to dig grave by grave where we buried shame after shame after shame

And covered it all,

Heap of dirt by heap of dirt, then brick by brick over it to build morgue by stinking morgue

We are the last ones left now,

The last drop of the viscous bile that is the blood our forefathers wrote into the next generation,

We carry no pride, yet are unburdened by remorse,

Living shells coating blood, bone, and limitless stirring

We are the builders of this great city.

For each word a cost was measured, and for each smile, we paid the price

And the debt we paid wasn’t in currency but with our waking days

Leave Me Be

By Dima Adam Dima

I will not preach you gospel. I will not fight your war.

I shall not raise your banner against thieves and whores.

I won’t slay your enemies unless they are also mine,

I won’t run from your fears or seek your divine.

I will bear no disdain for you or your kin.

I don’t hate you. I don’t love you. And I don’t care if you win.

I can’t hold your hand and march for your cause.

I wont lament at your pain or pay for your flaws.

I won’t breathe in your wrath or walk through your rage.

I refuse to learn the ways of living in your cage.

I won’t hear your sermon as you preach your truths.

I could never worship your deities if I’ve never eaten their fruits.

I have knelt at my altar; I have chosen this fate.

I accept damnation or heavens gates.

The Chaos

By Dima Adam Dima

All good things are meant to stay hidden so that only the worthy may find them’.

A voice descended from beyond the darkness above.

Upon that dusk sky where hope had once been emblazoned in a deep bloody etch

Like the rolling of thunder, it called us forth.

Summoned memories of the future to loop back to me in prophetic sequence.

And we supplicated to an oblivious deity.

As the world continued to burn in the distance

And the wheels rolled in a vicious blur fusing the gloom and the tongues of flames into visual noise.

When the motion forward into forever grabbed and pulled

There was no decision, there was simply the moment, the action, and the consequence.

The path that unravelled beneath us was such that only those born with perfect savagery would not falter.

Something in the air whispered:

‘All bad things remain scattered in plain sight so that the weakly multitude may stumble’.

I am dead

By David Apunda

I ceased living by the standards of the world for I am over. Over by the other side, with a new title on me. It was well or so I thought before I became….. late.

It is a year now, and you are all gathered for a celebration, to unveil a cross you claim, but the feast is endless, a poor cow butchered for my memory and alcohol to sweep the recollection; no more me, the earth is rotating. And fast.

For the function she wears a grim face; for the crowd, the widow still in mourning, but I saw you the other night, in a nightclub, twirling and laughing and being naughty, with a man I know, my friend, the one who pulled me from the vices of the world, and crafted in me an image of perfection; yes that one, the church elder, both you and his wife sing in the choir. I followed you… I tried to cry.

I peek at my phone from time to time, it is still on, placed on the reading table, to educate the ones who missed out on the most important occasion of my life. It is now flashing, a signal from the ignorant. The name on the screen warms my expired heart, for I know something he doesn’t know. It is the great white, the shark of the loan, circling for the kill. The mean bastard is still in the dark, groping for coins in a rotting grave. I should glide over to his side, just to watch his reaction to the new knowledge. Something worth dying for.

My daughter is getting married, the hall is packed to capacity, and most of the spectators are her friends, some mine, still perched on the bridge that I lay for them. The ceremony is on, she is coming in, all radiance and glitter, on the arms of… what! My brother, the squanderer, grabbed all my property for his gluttonous self. I take a close look at her, she has not changed much, I wave, expectantly, and they pass through me. The brother performing my most important duty, of giving out my girl. I’m on the verge of cursing death.

My son is a wee bit taller, building his masculine castle, but he is a problem, his mother is unable to control him, trouble looming in the near distance, too manly for the dames in his abode. I think he needs a man to subdue that testosterone. And I am a goner.

I was bad in my bad way, I was good on the surface. Denied me the best to please some, and hid behind a righteous air for the sake of a reputation. But the desire was there, suppressed deep in respectability, hidden from view and an assumption of goodness. I existed under a veil, to be perceived well by the eyes of the masses. I lived that life, and now I burst through walls without breaking, and see how life is lived, and how in denial I thought I was living. My years muffled, a ghost to open my eyes, and me to decay in a lonely heap, as the earth spins on, dropping the alphabets of my name in the black emptiness above. And some “good” man, living large, at the expense of my demise, with plenty.

I was there, at my funeral, weaving through the people; some total strangers, others, a flicker of recognition. I saw tears, I saw indifference, I saw mirth. I looked at myself in the casket, all too serious for once, with a business suit to match, an expensive-looking suit, one I’d never seen before. A mongrel was loitering around the area, a famished skeleton of a dog, needing an earthly makeover, searching for scraps of food carelessly cast-off by my overfed spectators.

She was present, the “goddess”, in sharp contrast with the mongrel; overweight, the sneering expression she still wore, the character she still carried, a handkerchief she clasped, to wipe strange tears; of grief or joy, or there in-between. This woman, the resident gossip, the thunderstorm, came to craft a story for her court jesters, me as the headline.

The boys from the city made a circus out of it all with demands unheard of in the village and afterward, in a long convoy, they trooped to the local market and depleted all available alcohol, and made a trophy for my name. It’s just a road trip for them, a break from the madding city. To be revisited, for another.

But my most inspiring character of them all was my relation, yes, my brother from another mother, he traveled for the act, I salute you man, you made a grand entrance, perfected your craft with an audience held in awe, and won yourself an Oscar. Oh! But you only saw me today after years of negligence and narrated how solid we have always been. But I’m dead Mr, please save your friendship for when you are dead.

And my sister, cut out the act, remove the veil and be yourself. Nothing has changed, it’s still me you used to loathe. Just dead, that’s all!

I was still new to death then, a year ago, and I was scared of the forms milling around me, curiously sizing me up. The newcomer in their midst, a novice to be taught, and tons of tricks to learn. An ordeal of eternity; to ascend or descend.

I see people, they see me not. Sometimes I am downright mischievous, others peculiar, but they have no idea, for they do not feel the effects. I’m just a ghost.

I can see you, doing exactly what you admonished me against, hiding in your little secret alcove, concealing your dirty tidings to the world; but which world dear Uncle, which world? I can see you. We all do.

On the ridge next a man is bent over broken bones, before him an old crone with broken teeth, she smiles an empty mirth at the naivety of the rookie as she shakes her gourd to awaken the spirit of the underworld, and the subject will part with money, in the conviction that he will gain a fortune. Wake up cousin, let the devil dwell in his gutter.

There is a place I like to hang out at, with the boys of the hood, careless boys. They smoke weed, they take booze, and howl and yell. They live their life for now. I admire their character and the “so what” attitude. A word of caution though, if you perfect that art you are learning they will bury you. At first, it was trickery, grew to pickpockets, and mutated. I saw the toy pistol. I will send them a message from the sky above, I will blow and rearrange a formation of clouds to interpret, look up boys, lookup.

I float and mingle with the elements, I sing in my memory, voice elusive, lips unable to pucker, whistling impossible, but I sing along to the tune of the departed as I seek the council of the phantoms, for knowledge and an escape from the realm of my past.

But in the meantime I waste on, gawking at the “living” and the absence of it all, visiting my crypt and trying to rearrange the rotting roses to perfection, entering doors marked “private” for an audience with the cast.

On my tombstone, at the head, where the unveiling I presume was some crack shot has engraved in bold, “Here lies the Wordsmith, the tales to spin no more, the gory scenes a twinkle in the sky. Fading.”

Gone with the act.

Do you enjoy your job?

Im not sure. It fills me with the requisite amount of anguish to aid me write.

I need it to keep a few things in motion.

I need to excel in it so that it becomes easier by higher rank. But I dont know if I enjoy it.

I dont like people. I need to be around a lot of people to do my job so there’s that.

Then I realize that my job is actually writing. Its the only thing that makes sense most of the time.

Yet even that turns me wild with rage and frustruation sometimes. Putting together a puzzle you dreamed up in your mind. And for what?

Because there is a stirring within you that says “tell this story”? “Tell it this way” and only this way.

“I’ll give you further details tommorrow”

And a day later, it actually does.

So that if you dont write, you go mad. And the guilt of not having done something claws at you. And everything else becomes meaningless.

Ok. Well if you put it that way, sure! I enjoy my job. I enjoy it about as much as anyone would enjoy fighting demons on the regular.

Rebirth

By Dima Adam Dima

They held on too tightly to their mothers because they didn’t have any fathers to pull them apart.

no one to show them the world as it truly is.

This world that swallows them so that if it spits them back out whole, then they are truly worthy.

But they think they know too much,

That is why each waking second, dread fills their innards taunting them: that the dream shall not bloom.

They see in the world only the gloom they have collected thus far and nothing beyond it.

Even me…

It happened to me once.

when I threw my gaze to the mountains and watched them reach for the highest point of the night

I knew in my soul of souls ….

Told myself over and over that you must grab a hold of raw dusk in your claws because before there was light, first there was eternal darkness.

And you can allow that into your heart, or you can fill it with whatever the hell it is you want.

But then? You must find something to put your heart into or it will empty.

For it is a broken, leaky thing that speaks beyond this realm.

It has spoken to burning bushes, but I suspect it wasn’t always the creator kindling the flame.

And each time, for a brief moment, when our hearts forgot how to beat, where was it I was meant to take my inconsolable heaviness?

This heaviness that beats the soul into submission and takes no prisoners.

Killing and reviving, killing, and reviving, killing…

One time as I walked out of the light led straight for the shadows, God let go of my hand and told me to go on.

That he would come find me

The sweetest lie I have ever been fed…because he merely hid within me.

Him you can trust even if you believe you shouldn’t.

Even when it doesn’t serve your faculties

Because

Adam isn’t coming back to you, and neither is Eve,

And they are too busy paying the price.

The garden is no one’s home now.

We all march to discover this wholesome agony.

And in that grand epiphany, everything becomes sacred.

The elation, the frown, blood of god, the pain that brought us here, the shit, the writing on the wall and in our hearts, our sloth, our claim, our daughters, their fears, our fathers, their tears, the rise, the fall the end of it all

Now! Claw! Tear! Breathe again!