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The University of Iowa Press thought it would be a really good idea to publish the “poetry” of the terrorist barbarians being held at Gitmo. Perhaps next summer they’ll release a coffee table book of Hitler’s “art,” combined with his tips on vegetarianism and animal rights.

Now that would please the lefties to no end.

After the jump, I will surprise and amaze you with my ability to channel the poems of dead terrorists. But right now, here’s a little taste of the “poetry” offered up by men who cut off peoples heads and shoot children in the back. Jumah al Dossari who has tried to kill himself 12 times at Gitmo. Obviously, he’s not trying very hard. If he’s so into poetry and death, even Sylvia Plath finally got it right. And what is the subject of this poem by a member of the world’s Death Cult? Death, of course! Oh yeah, and how he’s a victim.

Death Poem by Jumah al Dossari
Take my blood.
Take my death shroud and
The remnants of my body.
Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.

Send them to the world,
To the judges and
To the people of conscience,
Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.

And let them bear the guilty burden before the world,
Of this innocent soul.
Let them bear the burden before their children and before history,
Of this wasted, sinless soul,
Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the “protectors or peace.”

Actually, I have found that I have an amazing ability, one you can manifest, too! I found, just by going to a poetry generator on the internet, I am able to channel the poetry of one of the now-dead previously-held terrorists from Gitmo. You know, the terrorists we’ve let out of Gitmo, and had to kill after finding them back in the jihad and killing more innocent people in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Channeling Abdullah Mehsud was a little difficult at first, his poem arrived in bits and pieces (a grenade will do that to you), but I managed to put the pieces of his communication together. Here now is the poem that didn’t make it into the summer reading none of us will be reading. And what a shame, because it’s the best poem of all.

My Love

Your skin glows like the blood orange, blossoms sweaty as the daisy in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your tuba voice and leaps like a camel at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great flying carpet wing.
I am comforted by your burqa that I carry into the twilight of truckbeams and hold next to my head .
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of motor oil .
As my parrot falls from my turban , it reminds me of your plastic shredder.
In the quiet, I listen for the last blast of the day.
My heated throat leaps to my toga. I wait in the moonlight for your secret machete so that we may chop as one, throat to throat , in search of the magnificent red and mystical mass grave of love.

Yep, apparently the dead terrorists are more poetic than the live terrorists. Who knew?