-i’m Arab, nine


-i’m Arab, nine

They want the exotic of you,
not the reality of you,
they fancy all things,
media propped into their minds.

If they could,
they would take only the sound of the ney,
on a sandstorm backdrop,
palm trees rustling,
harems filled with boy servants,
and jewellery on plates.

But they don’t want your stubborn skin,
your eyes so dark,
because they carry the weight,
of what your ancestors have seen,
even if your eyes are sky blue,
emerald green,
or almond brown.

They don’t want your bulging discs,
because your backs are so heavy,
with the weight of the world wanting,
the black sludge under the ground,
your peoples blood is being used to paint the canvases of war.

Their addiction to the canvas,
to our paint, to the sludge.

They can’t survive,
it’s their drip feed,
it’s our curse.

Keep your callused hands they say,
because we have no use for the soil you tended to for generations.

Were gonna’ turn it over,
and build pipelines through your hearts,
and then when you turn your backs on your homes,
we’ll have the audacity to call you savages,
homeless, barbaric, refugees ……
But we’ll still want your exotic.

We’ll holiday in Dubai,
hashtag ‘exotic’ all day,
drape our heads with your veils,
to show how accommodating we are to customs,
and when we get back home,
turn on the news and revolt at seeing a woman in a veil.

Just last week, it was exotic,
and now it makes you neurotic.

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

English tongue,
Arab heart,
Olive skin that sizzles a copper brown,
reminisce of the Moroccan pots you hang,
I’m Under your southern sun,
but still….
it’s that Muslim soul…
whatever are we going to do about that thing.

We can’t have him using our language,
to spread love like fire rings,
that’s not part of the narrative,
that the media sings,
that’s not what we can slot,
into the category of terrorising,
speaking  of terror rising,
when were you thinking,
of giving back the land,
and stopping all the Aboriginal killing?

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

When the words sink deep into their souls,
and make them wonder,
just how the fuck I can write what they’re thinking,
what they hid from everyone.

He’s just be a gypsy magician,
he must have access to a realm we don’t.
For  the most part, I do,
it’s my father’s blood, and his father’s blood,
it’s my mother’s womb, and her mothers womb.

I’m exotic when they want me to be,
but for the most part I’m Arab,
because I was made a refugee from Australia the minute I was born here.


Read whilst listening to this.

Introversion Impulses – 13

Introversion Impulses – 13

At times, our inside world,
Doesn’t match our outside world.
Often, the blessing goes by unnoticed.
That we’re oblivious,
And should be thankful,
We have an inside world to begin with.


The excuse for the lame,
for the mediocre,
for those that haven’t the will,
nor desire to toe the line of taboo,
to find what hurts and peek over the edge,
hang from a ledge just to feel the weight of their body,
held only by their fingertips,
but content with the breeze between their floating legs,
is that;
we’re crazy,
that we’ve lost it,
that we aren’t normal.


Because they lack such a vivid inner world as we do.
They don’t hear their own voice let alone many voices.
They don’t feel anything but outside their skin,
so how are they meant to know the soul of us,
the ticking time bombs waiting to splash vivid colours of paint,
off our inner palates, onto our canvases.
So we stay inside.
No, they’re dull, they’re lifeless,
and it hurts so much they have to paint others,
the same way as themselves,
it is too much effort,
to look anywhere else,
except at where others are looking,
where other’s eyes are lurking.
Are they seeing you,
isn’t better than,
are we seeing ourselves.




I don’t have ball in my throat
I have a boulder in my neck
A mountain on my back
A planet in my prostate

My universe has always imploded
And now the residue is about to find its way out
Into streams of hurt and rivers of torture
This gap is so wide to walk around

How, how do I not fall
Not choke
Not crumble under the weight
Not gasp and quake

How ever do I knead the mend into my being
When the one ingredient needed to make this soul rise
Is you

How, can this colon heal
When I felt your absence all those years ago

I held on
I held on for so long

Do you know how hard it is
To use food as a bandage
And pretend all is well

Easy to swallow
Hard for it to find it’s way
And fill the gap of your attention being diverted

Cancer doesn’t just visit one randomly
Something has to die one way or the other
Perhaps lose someone
Until cancer becomes the intimate lover

Thus it embraced me with its claws
Gnashed it’s teeth into me thirty years ago
And I’ve worn its wedding ring ever since

Now we celebrate our vows
In sickness and in health, till death do us part

My colon has burst
My kidneys have rotted
I’m a man apart
Cancer, has my heart


perspective – seeing beyond your SELF

perspective – seeing beyond your SELF

i’ve never wallowed in my misfortunes,
never questioned my lot,
whatever I have or don’t have,
all the broken things,
and mended things,
and things and things,
i’ve kept.
i’m no hoarder,
but herewith, is this mountain of me,
i stand on top of these things,
and see so much better.


Underneath me are my woes, my troubles,
My failures and shame,

Everything I hate about myself,
And all the blame.

And I know, when peoples fingers will fly,
Towards me like sidewards rain,

I’ve yet another molehill to add to this mountain,
And height to gain.

I’ll see further,
And beyond the plains,

I’ll take whatever, add it to my pile,
And improve my reign,

That’s why I don’t fret, don’t wallow,
But invite the pain.


all that glitters is not gold

all that glitters is not gold

whilst the idea of me is alluring
the reality of me is frightening
lucky for me
my pen is prettier than my face


don’t get carried away,
with the way my words settle into your soul,
carve a nest into your heart,
and send a quiver through your lungs.

gasp, gasp,
there it is,
that skip of a beat,
as if I were talking to you,
fret not,
nor flatter yourself,
I am long gone,
in love with a being that doesn’t exist,
so your intrepid arrow,
will always miss.


are you really listening?


If you were really listening,
you’d hear the whisper of your soul.

Its orchestra would gnaw at the very seed
of your existence and you would answer its call,
if you were listening.


The tongue is a loose cannon,
spitting venom without restraint.

The mind, utter arrogance as we intellectualise
everything, dissect and pull apart things that
don’t need fixing, just to appease the ego.

Oh that ego, incessantly looking for

The heart, I’m tired of its extremes,
either too harsh or too gentle,
too broken or too determined.

The soul,  now there is a whisper
worth paying attention to.





Let them fray their tongues
there’s poetry yet to be written


They’ll talk until their tongues fray
But I’ll love them with my poetry anyway
When their lips can’t pass a word to say
I’ll be their voice, and for their souls pray


As much as I’d love to help everyone, I can’t,
Not especially people who are conniving
Who I see from far horizons
Approaching with wild ego’s galloping
As if I was a carcass for feasting
They make for good muses.

The talking is a given. They won’t stop. That’s their job.

My job is to pay attention and extract the nuances of the human condition.