Home » Issues & Poems » Issue Twenty Four » from 'TO THE HITCHHIKING DEAD'


Khaled Hakim




waer doz it find yu lost arhat of erazure

can y/ find him in yr 30 yr old hieroglyfh scraps lic a Rorshack moth ingesting a rag


hes dere waiting for th richt tyme, waiting for da rong lyftime, waiting for you to start riting w/ a hand alredy taggd for a Gulag intern, typriter balansed on a ledge


any slip rode in th wind, any moterway in th sun, any moterway from heere to south, from midlans westward, heere to Scotland — I kno I went to Edinburugh that tym I crashd th Frinj — I no Im droppt on th ring rode utside Glasgow, & stood on a giant yland wiv da city in hot murk & full o fear & Gorbals tales, & dere was even an Old Firm match n all.


Ya ariht theer ma wee brown man. Ey Mary lass, com heere thun ya girly, gies a kiss ya littl puff.


A motorway suth east suth west — I got a lift by three hells anjels or goths driving a pickup van, & þey tole me to get in the open bak. & th wind is beating me upsids, I think I tak th ships cap off & hair flayling. & I get an overhwelming funk dese Gothik redneck types ar driving me to my plase of tortchur. & da miles go by I see hem læȝhing thruȝ th bak window, & Im thinking I haf to stop dis truck, I haf to kno…if I nock on da window & ask them to stop…then at lest Ile kno. & th driver looks at me as if Im asking for a hot tub & TV in th bak. & its too late to say, Oh never mind, Ile wait for sume poetri.


How did we get heere. Reeally. Evry tym I was on th Brent Cross sliprode I thocht of yoo my love. My brine eyd fate. Rolling a car into th canal.


A self thats stitcht from fragments. A self dats blank to itself.


Waere ar yu fate – I kno yore bak dere

slowly killing me w/ sleep & wayting to pressgang me into Yr Arms O Lord


Hoo is this?

Evry second missing yr wyf, evri second flaking off her & rolling into dunes of skin under th bed,

everi second missing everi second,

every wyf wedged into a carpet of haire in th hoover then scraped into a plastick bag by th haples huzbond – everi huzbond a broken vacuum clener da wyf cant throw away

Yallah my beti!

Beti mor than beti,

spurnd & spurning heti!

I wish yud had my babiz, da way I had yr babiz.

God, Yu had my babiz? You had all ower babiz? Yu had all owr comings & ower strayings & ower brekfasts & owr lie-ins & owr worn-owt shoos & car battriz

O Raðhu Allahu anhu wa raðu an

O Raðhi morr contented

roll me up into a Godshapt ball of gulabjam

hold me but not too tiht

hold me but not too liht,

hold me Allah lyk yu ment it

hold me lyk yore Ahad






do y/ want to now wat I did after rioting — do y/ want to now wat I did after th landlord — da won who put my hed thru —


I ran away from yoo to Bangladesh w/ my mom — to ficht off marrige w/ my familie

I heard I gav my cuzins my charity shop shirts —

I ran away from my moðer w/ you

I ran away w/ Samantha from you

she ran away w/ a smackhed from yu

I ran from marrij until it ran from me —

then I ran to marrij till I was cawht

& evry day þeres no escape


ye keep looking in th mirrer but yore stil thare –

doomd to rome an alien landscap whaer evrything is comforting & familier –

a dog a hog a slowboild frog dat keeps turning rownd & rownd its tale hoping to find its plase –


Run run run, beever tootht Pasha

run to yr lost sandles in heafon, to th imprint of a beeche in Yugoslavia a honied licht in Clawde glas, to th beutifull slavs w/ ugly slav hands


I beleev I was impregnated by alienz w/ an imaje of home: an imacculat lizard princess hoo may hav had sex w/ me. I was probably eleven at th tym, & it waz just after going to see Cinderella, & I remember th radiantly fuzzy avatar hovering over me at niht, & drawing owt my life forse. After that no wunder I failed my exams.


Run run run rolling beetel

a litel wooden boy w/ rickets

a litle wooden boy w/ a litle wooden heort

a littel woody pecker

enogh to mak a kitszlich kindling

enogh to leve a splinter in yr crak


drag a carcass of poetrie acros deenatured landscap

flay it of proceedur, reeding, radical cant

no oolipian alibi larded w/ continentel fuckery,

on a leesh of lov leding me to say it say it say


heere w/ my nervs

out ut ut in th pissy sae

sooo faaar


take a foot, a slender longitudinal arch w/ monky toez — take won step take another


Im gonna run after th Frend til he lyes down exawsted & I wawk up & speere him — speer YOU sweethart w/ yr eyez th color of clowds rolling bak, saying Do it qwickly!


Im gonna run after God till I lay down hopless, saying Pleeze dont hurt me!










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