A Fortunate Man

Originally posted on Fugitive Fragments:

fortunateman

My son is dying, dark eyes fever-flared,
He bravely smiles as we await his fate.
72 virginal houri abide
Visage veiled but vaginas revealed
Or 28 pre-pubescent puerile pearls
If such preferred, as promised by Hadith.
The vest bears down its weight and cumbrous heft
On fading heart of this my blessed scion
Compressing tread-marks of his final steps
On venerated path through ancient dust.
I watch now from this place to the bazaar
Where wretches beg and fallen angels profit.
Honour will be paid to me for loss;
Tribute will be brought and I will feast;
His act speeds my path when my time comes.
A muffled
Holy
rumbling roar of rage.
Still-twitching parts from those of lesser worth
Fragment and reek of vile impurity.
Clouded in blood-mist their blackened meat
Stains every desert star to crescent moon.
Lacerated limbs lance wall and roof
Mangling men reviled like scorpions…

View original 66 more words

12 thoughts on “A Fortunate Man

  1. I liked the rawness of this post, very concise and allusive to the disease’s effects…
    It made me think of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Mask of the Red Death”.
    And , by the way, I have found these verses truly remarkable, Mike:
    “Clouded in blood-mist their blackened meat
    Stains every desert star to crescent moon”.\

    Best wishes to you, Aquileana :)

    • It does indeed seem impossible but when a man believes he acts on the authority of a God, reason is abandoned. I appreciate your reading and joining in[- thank you.

    • Yes, dogma can limit one’s vision and lead to an inflated (not-a-pun) sense of personal importance and destiny. Thank you good friend for taking the time to cogitate.

  2. This is a powerful piece of work, Mike – like Rowan says, the language is striking. I saw the original too, which I missed last year.

    I believe we were talking of St Patrick’s Day recently… I remembered…

    • This is a short message Polly because I am conserving my energy for tomorrow when I will be expected to be fit enough to consume quantities of stout against my better judgement. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you Polly.

  3. Taking on the mind of the suicide bombers father was quite a formidable challenge, but you kept it sober minded. It’s hard to believe a father could watch his son walk into a bazaar and detonate himself mangling the flesh of others in a sort of holy vengeance, but those holy words and divine rewards do intoxicate the mind. Well written – even the gruesome ending.

Whaddya think?

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