‘Rambling Dead Man Blues, In Dm’ by Ahmed Nader

I tried to look for her, if I only knew who she was. It would’ve made it much easier, man. I sat on a wooden chair with nails piercing my ass one dim afternoon. The sky seemed to be angry at something, I wasn’t sure why; it looked gray and old and dark, just full of shit. I took a sip from a glass cup of tea that tasted a bit like dark ink, and I looked at the wall right in front of me -which separated  me from the dead. The one’s rotting underneath a load of sand, clay and gravel. The one’s that are there and not there, who fought and died and weren’t missed. Or were they? They fought for what they believed in I guess, sooner or later, you gotta believe in something. And here I am, stuck with the backside of the human race, whose thoughts are as rotten as the bodies underneath the ground. Yakety yak, talkety talk, but I’m not listening. Over enthusiastic talks of him and her and them and it, and what and where… Whom?! Car, bag, jeans… fools, pools and pools of empty souls. I took another sip of my ink and listen to them discussing the formation of one female’s behind, the curvature of it was said to be a work of art. I took another sip from my cold ink and heard them speak of a sport, something that had to do with a ball and kicking it. My mind went again to the people underground, the silent population. Did they once talk about that one girl’s fancy looking behind? Or were they too busy getting shot in the head, with brain bits splattering about, slamming into someone’s face, who thought about the girl with the nice behind, who had a partner with a large nose, who kept sticking it where it did not belong, belong to a human race, a race around a track, dogs barking, howling to the moon who once saw me kissing a woman in the darkness of a tree, with out stretched arms and green leaves. It was her, the girl I’ve been looking for every where, anywhere and somewhere out there by the shadow of the concert wall that separated me from the dead underneath the ground. The grass is not greener on the other side of the fence, but the grass is dead on both sides? I’m not quite sure about tomorrow my love, but I sure am excited about today. I’ll find you , on the wrong side of the fence.


About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
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