there are two things which break a man
being taught how to be one
by his son
or by his wife
both are necessary
if he struggles on his own


Pray you have a good one of each or either.
As heartbreaking  as it is,
To be shown how to be something,
You assumed you already are,
It leaves a tranquil etch in you,
Too proud,
You still wear the achievement,
Despite the bereavement.

Pangs for alphahood,
Missing manhood,
Courage, chivalry,
Wayward gentlemanly,
Finding galantry,
Sitting on your sons shoulders,
Sitting in your wife’s breast.

It’s ok,
Taste it on your lips,
Swirl it on your palate,
Let it dance at the back of your throat,
And fill your belly,
There’s nothing that can sweeten the blow,
It’s something you just have to swallow slow.


-bonfire of introversion


sit me atop this home
of firewood mounted, bonfire mountain
throne of alone

any which way I try,
all is not calm
raging, ravaging
ageing, non-engaging
sea drying under the sun

i cannot float in the whispers of agreed palatable mutuality

it’s not a filter
it’s dishonesty
‘accept my lies, so i can accept yours’
that is the social discourse

pass that as opinion
hashtag it with ‘everyone is entitled to one’
then paint me a villain
when I disrupt your fun

why do i keep coming out
assuming it will be better this time
stupid optimist
when everyone is a pessimist
better off a pantomime

so light this fire already
i’m already aflame
i can’t for the life of me
play this sociability game


Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same


the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.


Art by Khalid Albaih




what’s a man to do
when he can’t stand what he sees inside
ironically turn further inward
flee from himself to hide

Because immersion does not become easier as you grow older, you have less head above water, less energy to tread water.
And we who drown, shudder at the idea of mattering, listening to the noise of the outside world with their self love mantras, because we know far better, because we can’t stand the sight of both the inside and the outside.
Who am I kidding, all this effort to show confidence and ability.
I can’t stand living in this hide, but I’m not an ingrate to having one, I don’t think I could live with total nakedness.

-introversion – thirty seven

-introversion – thirty seven

of the womb we never escape
merely transfer
from the inside of our mothers
to the inside of our own
lifelong seeking
the divine home


this obsession is driving me mad
stop this perpetual call
i know, i really do know
it’s me that is calling you with my longing

still, i beg you, stop calling me
there’s only so much longing I have assigned to this world
and as long as you breathe your poetry
play your ney
and your fingers dance as if a flame curling skywards
the clouds will remain jealous of the grass
that imprints your soles,
and they will weep
as I do

and here i remain unable to move heavenwards
anchored to the intoxicating scent of you
worldly myrrh and frankincense
and all this in the vicinity of my home

wrapped around my clavicle
notes on my wrists
i have not even seen beyond my door
and i know a greater grandeur exists
but why, why do you persist

stop your chant
stop your harp
stop your song of being apart

it’s not me you seek but Him as I do
but the world has blinded both me and you
marry your soul and follow through
and your vows to him be true, be true

close your eyes and press your lips
slow down your heart heaves
from the goblet slow sip
move closer, attach at the hip
and feed off this drip divinely lit

open your beak like a bird to it’s mother
receive all this offering of a lover
beloved, loved, loved and beloved
what difference is there, hand in glove
it’s all love, it’s all loving
still, please stop with your hymn and singing
i can’t take this
i’d rather my unbelonging

from mothers womb to my own
from this tomb with golden dome
to misty fume scattered to roam
ancient perfume finding its home