wonderless, wanderless

Disconnect, seems to be the only thing that lingers,
familiarity like pulse, like breath,
like work beaten out of your forehead,
all that relieves, all that comforts,
only ever a wish, despondent,
a reminder like a splinter,
small, intolerable,
and in your fingers.


Anxiety, the liar

It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.

-Wesam El dahabi

A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.


Dear world


Dear world,

Thank you for finding me unattractive,
what I couldn’t change on the outside,
was the catalyst for ensuring I’d toil my insides.

What dulled my need for your approval,
sharpened my self scrutiny.

What made me develop a shell so hard, so grotesque,
strong and impenetrable,
ready and willing to engage in the detestable,
also softened my heart to make me never use it all
against you.

I’m the monster you want to react,
I’m the quiet guy you want to attack,
the one who has a target on his back,
to empty your insecurities on, and all you lack.

I’m the meek guy who couldn’t speak up,
who had plenty to say but tongue was stuck,
caught between embarrassment and manners,
wedged between a wall and a truck.

A train wreck, a wrecked chain of thought,
conviction, confusion, in a web, caught,
loaded mind, tranquil heart, ready fists,
on the front line of battle, coming up short.

Perhaps the reason for introverts,
are created the way they are,
is that the world would not be able to handle,
all that was contained inside of them,
were it to be released outside of them.


Art: Risking Enchantment by Margarita Georgiadis’

-white noise


-white noise

That noise inside your head?
there is blessing in it,
give it the audience it deserves,
and it will become a symphony.


The four am chase,
with one eye struggling to open,
the other just barely watching what you write,
amazingly, your hands can do what they are meant to do,
and words fall on a page.

Stepping between the ropes
brave face, consumed by fear, clinging on to hope,
stare into his eyes,
and in the third person see yourself about to become,
even more alone than you already are.

Everything between, is automatic,
amazingly, your hands and feet do what they are meant to do,
and you fight with valour,
the outcome is irrelevant, the battle is poetic enough.

Listening to the gurgle of last breaths,
those who know, know,
there are cries, there are hearts turned to the sky,
and then the last breath escapes,
amazingly, amidst the chaos, you know what you are meant to do,
and this once home of a soul, you honour.

This clamour, this clamour,
this buzz, this ringing,
this ruckus of a stage presence,
chews at you,
because you know you have to step up to something when it comes,
there is a task at hand,
and during it,
perhaps this white noise is the silence you need to pull through.

It’s the coma from my self,
it’s the hand over my mouth,
it’s the straight jacket of containment,
it’s the cageless prison,
it’s the psychedelic of awareness,
it’s the ejection seat,
when I am going head first into,
where everything-ness exists,
perchance i land softly in it’s palm.

Excuse me whilst I am there.

Poets operate in a vacuum of extremes.
what we say is personal,
and as poetically written,
as weighty and prosen as it may anchor into you,
it is not universal.
Enjoy the word play,
but dwelling on the utter-ness of words,
will have you ready to tie your noose.





am i any more
than a handful of remorse
a fistful of anger
and palm raised skyward of regret


Living with volatility is not the spouse you always imagined.
What many peoples idea of being with a poet is like, has been stereotyped into oblivion, but in self fulfilling prophecy, every Tom, Dick and Harriet, has assumed the role of madness at the mic, darkness through the lens, or blood splutterer at the paper mill, oh…. and the broken ones, I can’t forget the broken hearted love fools, constantly telling the world how they could never love again. Meh!

Still, whether an act, or sincere volatility, one has to ask if they really signed up for such disarray. Either way, there is something wrong with the person even if they’re acting the part out for popularity.
Whether a show for fulfilling the role or a living up to pop standards of trending themes or legitimate mental abstinence, it doesn’t snugly fit into our minds, because we’ve been lambasted with caricatures of poets for centuries.

Take Rumi, my beloved Jalal Ul Din Al Rumi (bet many of you didn’t know his first name). The utter master of divinely inspired poetry.

The mass of readership, of hashtaggers, of meme makers and of ‘life coaches’ (please someone show me what uni degree I have to take to get qualified) would most likely be mortified to know, he was a Muslim. Not just any old run of the mill Muslim but a theologian of the highest order. (ten points to those of you that can tell me of what disciplines he was a master of)
That means, he’d look like the typical stereotype of media propagated imagery. Gowns, beards, turban, brown skin, and speaking a language that sounded like you needed to warn the air hostess before your plane takes off.

Shock horror, not your beloved quotable Rumi who fills your hearts with self reflection, only long enough to last for the rising likes on your latest social media post. Really? You mean he doesn’t look like a love struck Leonardo Di Caprio? (those who’ve heard, know what that’s about)

Where’s your stereotype now?

So, I’m sorry, but when people say Shakespeare, Blake, Wordsworth etc, the imagery that comes to my mind are just people who have whether by natural disposition or repetition of habit merely learned the art of piecing together words, mastered prose but people who get annoyed when they are distracted away from a conjuring, people who are volatile, angry, depressed, fragile and at the same time, robust, rugged, hardened.

Don’t assume them to be hopelessly romantic, or utterly bent of soul, drunkards in a tavern longing for loss, or bathing in a sea of spring blossoms. Sometimes they’re just pieces of shit, who hate themselves, know their lot, know how unliveable they are to be with and quietly go about their relationships with loyalty as an expression of their love that they cannot manifest through any other way because all those roads have been uprooted for whatever reason.

The poet caricature is evolving, as the mic, as performance poetry, as slams and spoken word takes over. The real ones, you can feel in your bones, they still exist but fuck me, there are so many of you that are mic bitches, that are media whores, and social panderists, panting, wagging tail and painting a picture of what you’re not.

Out of all things you could be,
you decided to fake a character in poetry?

To build a personality, decided to jump on trends,
and in the sea of conformity blend?

You decided your mend of semblance,
is a spoken word event attendance?

That a sentence construction,
is what appeases your attention?

And then you disappear,
when popularity shifts,
when your mind is adrift,
when you have to pay rent,
by taking another shift,
in that menial job,
oh you poetry snob,
and you realise that,
you’re not exactly that literary gift.


random memories of you

I have a mistress,her name is sorrow,
shall be our child.

but how will sorrow’s womb be fertile,
if she leaves no room for my whisper,
how will I inherit grief
to carry on my name
if the sporadic nature of her call
is through the most mundane

how will grief grow bones and skin and eyes and fingers
if her bosom sees no sun nor candle

so don’t look at me as a madman, an adulterer, a man of the tavern or temple
just let me be this brittle being
hidden-unseen, having been
an in between, anything but unclean

the loss of a child strikes you mad,
when grief is a metaphor for dad.


trust issues



The saddest individual is not the depressed, not the lonely, not the one fighting demons, or mental, spiritual, or emotional issues,  but the one who won’t admit them nor aim to rectify themselves, one grain at a time.

I can’t trust people who paint a veneer of perfect.

I don’t want a confession, I just want the truth.
That truth manifests in your presentation outwardly, the way you look at people, talk to them, stand around them, walk to or away from them, communicate with them, treat them.

I have serious trust issues with people who persist on acting outwardly.