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.


-let go

-let go

you cannot have
what’s been claimed before you
i’ll always be second hand goods

There is not a single part of me that would wistfully say, ‘here, take me’.
Why when I never was, to begin with.
The idea of taking something, means that thing exists.
But do excuse my over-philosophising,
really, I don’t exist.

Oh but those who never saw me before,
would rise with the scientists fervour,
argue with rhetoric,
debate with logic,
take to my neck with evidence and war.

Ironically, in proving my existence,
would slay me even more.

Nay, I don’t exist,
but if you must, please persist,
show me how,
only now,
have I come into your view
and in your vision subsist?

It’s much too late,
I’ve bitten my fate,
you couldn’t dig me out,
of self harms grout,
I’m smitten with vanishing,
and in this vapour, articulate.


those who want too much

to those who want too much,

the most tender, intimate and loving thing
i can say to you is,

i’m listening


whilst the rage in you calls for utter devotion,
worship of you,
until I sacrifice myself at your altar,
know that is all empty,
and void.

to offer you my attention,
doesn’t mean I have to stop being,
there is something greater than you or I,
there’s hearing the magnetic silence between us,
to know we are given not ears, but souls to hear things.


the seed that hides in the shadows

We’re seeds waiting to burst,
to impregnate you with poetry,
and fill your womb with our vulnerabilities,
because we know our origin,
are familiar with it’s perfume.

Naturally, the poetry of a woman’s body,
will only be understood by poets,
because we understand lines,
we curve words,
we cursive around vernacular,
until it tingles the hairs on your clavicles.

And why, we ask?
Why do you seek those who have no vernacular,
only then to look down on us,
when we write you more poetry,
write you, more you.

We don’t see you in disjointed pieces,
of fleshen lust,
body parts of Frankenstein making,
we see you as the sharer of the apple,
we ate, as you ate, tempted by words,
and only then,
was our nakedness made apparent,
but still we write,
of losing the innocence in silken verse.

Come eat, if but a morsel,
and become immortal,
forever seen through ripe pomegranate blood of heaven,
if it weren’t a sin,  we’d worship you,
and God would certainly understand the heart of poet,
we’re not blasphemous, we but love his gift to us,
and yet still, you long for the tongue tied,
the glittering fodder of men,
we pale into shadows,
writing and writing, and writing, and writing and waiting…..

This affair with words has us mad,
as we long to carve out the perfect prose,
with the precision of a zelij craftsman,
geometry to perfection, balance and scale and rhyme and rose,
and hope to plant it in you,
a seed that grows….
waiting still in shadows.


Art by David Uzochukwu – he is quickly becoming one of my favourites.

-Soof (wool)


-soof (wool)

am I the caller or are you?
am I seeking light,
or are you illuminating my path?

I wish my fingers were worn
from this rosary I carry
but my hands are hard and callused
tis the heart that beats wear down

there is no more it can take of this glow
where the river of remembering you flows
where every lover and seeker goes
where they grow
where the knower, knows
and everything slows

and taken by the throes, of prose
of healing aloes
all comes to a close
where in desperate hope
we yearn to be one that He chose

where suddenly awash are woes
and secrets are disclosed
off to the market we go
to sell our adornments
and don the beggars clothes

so hand me those well worn
damp with fever
scent of a lover
patches of woollen throws
it is only a shell
for this piece of flesh
and of my other shell
in molten fire dispose

now take me Lord…
and of our vicinity
keep it ours
not a person of it to disclose


– on people who think they love hard


love bares no sword long enough
no sword tempered, forged, or hardened in fires of hell enough
to stand light.

light, is greater than love
and this is why I laugh at you with your love prattling, your juvenile regurgitation of hapless poetry.
if you had but an ounce of reflection in you, you’d know the moth is not attracted to love itself, it isn’t even aware of love. from it’s commitment to light, it devotes a path into it to be engulfed in entirety, and cowardly poets have been prattling ever since about moths and love….

instead of just devoting to light.


A reflection off the blade of a sword and it renders the swordsman useless.
Too much light, and we’re blind.
Too little light, and we’re blind still.
Just enough, and we exist.

Love has got nothing to do with the ultimate reality.
That is why the best of creation was not born from love, but a drop of earth penetrating light, – nurun 3ala nur – light upon light.
And God Himself describes the similitude of Him

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The similitude of His light is as a niche wherein is a lamp. The lamp is in a glass. The glass is as it were a glittering star, lit from a blessed olive-tree, neither of the East nor of the West, whose oil would almost glow forth (of itself) though no fire touched it. Light upon light, God guides unto His Light whom He pleases, and God sets forth similitude’s for mankind, and god is All-Aware of all things.

Begin with knowledge. Knowledge is light.
It beams bright on your darkest fears and reminds you, you have the knowledge to walk here.
It beams bright on your most depressive moments and shows you the way out to elevated places.
It gives you the tools to deal with yourself, by yourself at your most vulnerable, because knowledge is light.
You can’t flick a switch and love yourself as these soulless and spineless saps spray venomously on T.V., media and other platforms. You need knowledge on how to do that.
You can’t just accept yourself because some guru said so. You need knowledge on how to do that.
Those types of knowledge are not found in anything made this century, or last for that matter. It’s far more ancient, and that quite simply is not fancy enough and doesn’t palate well with ultra consumerists who would buy knowledge in a pill if they could.

Because all I am reading about is sappy lust.
Your love is flavourless without the honesty and purity of light

I see your love, and raise you light!


Rust – The ever lustful


rustRust on wet Iron, the appetite is lust,
Devoted Iron, undress and bare skin to moisture,
Water is selfish, observe its transmutation,
Dissipate, dissipate, osmosis of a different kind, in rewind,
Alchemy of love, annihilation of mind.
Spectacular! Majestic unison is water on bare metal,
Two hydrogen’s and one oxygen – one molecule of consumption,
Otherwise life essential, now the serpent of lust.
Utter fixation, the selfishness becomes selflessness; the hydrogen separates from the oxygen.
Water, devoting a part of it, carving out its life giving force, a sacrifice to Iron.
Separation for procreation; gives birth to love,
Fungal beautiful, you long to witness cancer take form , to cause destruction.
Slowly, eating away, and the Iron, does not resist. It too offers itself.
Into cancers sharp incisors it donates its flesh.
“Consume me whole or don’t bother”, it says, but to a hungry serpent, tis a sweet invitation, un-refuted.

And what remains?


The echo of orange stained crying,

Blood stains,

Of the violent nature of loves most haunting affair,

Splattered, evidence of the purity of a love,

That can exist only in nature,

In primal, unadulterated, innate nature.


Forensic evidence of love’s presence:

background texture

The  picture above is by Stephen Scullion.
It has been used with his permission. He is a genius at capturing oceans, seas, stills at times where it seems all liveforms have ceased to exist.
You can find him on social media Instagram handle @surfpi
The original picture unfiltered is:





The look of love

When I was a teenager, I would have to walk to the train station. There I’d wait to catch the train across five suburbs, then to walk about a kilometre to school. All up the eight kilometre trip from home was laden with a bag of books, lunch and other things you think are necessities.  Funny how much junk they make you think you need to live a day as a student.

All of that didn’t matter to me though, because there in the icy mist of mornings, the sun would fight through rusted beams holding the station platform above us and there at seven thirty,  I’d go to the same spot and wait, not only for the train but for a girl.

She had the darkest eyes that were the perfect shade of I don’t care, and her smile…. What a secret she kept! She wore braces so she hid them, barely exposing her smile. Somewhat scowling at the world, her creases vanished though as her long black hair would blow over and she’d walk into my vision. Her hair too long to be manageable by herself, someone definitely would comb it for her daily, well past her behind, long like the uniform skirts she wore at a time when girls were folding their minis at the waist as soon as they stepped out of home.

Fresh bread baked across the railway tracks in a Vietnamese bakery lane way shop, the smell of train brakes applied too hard, ever lingering amongst tracks and the suburban foliage fought for territorial rights amongst the scents every morning. Same battle, they had amnesia of the previous day’s outcome, that none of them ever won or lost, each had their rightful place and all were welcome by the morning commuters, especially myself and Ursula, but I only learned her name two years later.

She’d stand meters away from me, almost a dare for me to engage. You don’t dare an introvert if you like winning, you’d lose every time, they don’t engage.
Still, she’d do it, and me to her, stealing glances laced with smiles, sometimes engaging in staring competitions, pretending we were only looking over each others shoulders and not at each other, faking a re-focus and jolting our heads to vision, past each other’s eyes. We were both aware of the mental games, but blush on we did.

It was an unwritten agreement. Usually we’d get on the train and wait in the carriage stand up area, still stealing glance to glance. Occasionally it would change to one of us walking up or down to the seating areas, the other would follow and the glances would continue from a distance until each of us went our separate ways to our schools.

This continued for a year, perhaps two.
We never spoke on that train platform or on the train.
Then she wasn’t there any more.
But I’d still look forward to those mornings even though they weren’t the same. Rust and Iron, rocks and brake smell, bread and tree scents, the memories were all there. That’s all I needed.

Sometime later, I found her again. She was working at the local supermarket at the registers. That’s how I learned her name, from her name badge, still way too introverted to ask her, or to even say hi. She had developed though, she said,

“Hello, how are you?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Was she asking asking, or was she working? If she was working, I’d answer, if she was asking, I wouldn’t. Gutless, I couldn’t muster up the courage. This inner world has been my life for a long time. I decided to strike the safe deal and convinced myself it was for work that she was asking, part of customer service, so I replied,

“I’m well thanks”.

Sensing distance and insincerity in my tone, her smile turned into the scowl she wore on the train platform as she waltzed into view every morning and like a glacier, she turned to her register, bagged my items and it was if I was the Titanic, struck by her and that sinking feeling just overwhelmed me.

Tail between my legs, I walked out.
I returned back to the store several times over the next few months, but she would only glance once, polite acknowledgement and continue with her work, never a word spoken still.

Then she disappeared.

Many years later I was in a video store, before DVD’s were ever created.
As the smell of bagged stale popcorn and damp carpet overwhelmed my senses whilst searching for a flick to occupy my mind that day, a familiar sight appeared in front of me.
I had spent that much time immersed in observing her years ago that even with her back turned, she was unmistakable. It was Ursula.

In the pit of me, I begged God for her to turn around and confirm my gut feelings, ‘Turn around woman and don’t make my eyes liars’, and as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder she turned.

Two years or so studying her every feature, it was hard to mistake her, even though she had matured into a graceful woman.

My heart jumped out of me, like someone had pulled the Titanic out of the ocean floor.

She saw me and blushed the same blush she did when she was so much younger.
She grabbed an earlobe, rubbing her earing and smiled the same big smile she always did. The one that made her lips fuller because of the braces she once wore, now just perfect white teeth behind the same full lips.

I smiled back, but I looked down. I looked down because she was with her partner or husband. I’ve never been so brazen to step on another human beings rights. She was no longer my right and in that instant transformed into a beautiful memory.

But I smiled, and she smiled and it was all that I needed. We smiled because we resumed an affair even if it was but for a moment and it was more than enough.

Sometimes we can’t have the things we want so badly. But the love that can come from them can last for eternity, probably because it existed before you met anyway.

We have to learn how to love in separation, never discontent, never in despair from something beautiful we experience that we may never be able to have again.

Just because we are vulnerable once even if utterly shattered in that state, it does not mean we should develop barriers, put up walls, cage our hearts never to receive love again.

I put up walls to prevent people into my world because I pick and choose who I want, writing is a wall I have chosen to remove altogether to expose some of my vulnerabilities but I never look back and hate a person I loved once, no matter what. That is utter dishonesty, for what was I doing in their heart and they in mine in the first place if there wasn’t even remotely something attracting us to one another.

Find love in smiles, in scents, moments and in memories, it’s far more than the lust of flesh that love is. Find it in a look, a glance of acknowledgement, a glance of understanding, anything that settles your hearts affair but when you find it, take a snapshot and frame that with the most exquisite frame you can find to preserve the memory and not ever lose sight of how to love.

Like resuming a playground game you shared as an infant with a friend, let it pull you by the pinkie to where you need to be, don’t turn it into a closed fist of destruction.
It’s not ever that, ever.

I don’t love Ursula like I love my wife, it’s a different type of love. I haven’t shared moments with her as intimate, as lasting, as puncturing as I have with my wife, my children and family.

Be open to love and it will find you in a set of braces as a teen or the classic scent of a woman who’s body may change but pheromones remain the same.
It may be in your child’s eyes, it may be in a strangers gesture of good will.
It may even be in the hands of a baker on an icy morning, with the scent of train brakes, rusted iron and trees competing for your love. Receive them all whatever which way it comes.

The lover is innocent

the lover
In the state, there is no difference.
Some will reflect His light
In every direction they face.

Utterly absorbing,
Veiling Him
In sweet embrace.

As course as rubble,
Others, subtle,
As linen and lace.

Yet more,
And others
Vanishing, without trace.

There is no one way to love,
Not tenderly,
Not violently,
Not subtly or extravagantly,
There’s just love,
Let it be how it wishes to be.

He who loves a thing, remembers it often.


If you’re not practising it,
You’re amnesic

‘He who loves a thing, remembers it often’. Conversely, he who doesn’t remember, loves not the thing.
What of remembrance of Love itself?
Is it only convenient in situations relating to the flesh?
You don’t have to be of religion, but you have to religiously devoted to it.
Of the prattlers and the mascots of religion as far and varied as they are, their hucksterism is made apparent when they cannot line their pockets enough, when they cannot advance their ideologies enough, when they cannot step on other humans enough.
When the dictates of their dogmas are what steers their hearts, when their religiosity is bound by rules and regulations that never express love. Where’s your jurisprudence on Love?

Is Love only convenient to serve a temporary ache? To flow quills for the Kings satchel of coins?

Where are the permanently wandering lovers, mindless, the heartless, the soulless,  the severed of heads, like Hallaj, even as they removed his head, it spoke nothing more than Love, his blood forming the name of the beloved, causing his murders to be haunted for the rest of their lives by the crime against His Beloved, they committed. *

What do you remember often. What do you seek often. Where is your madness, obsession, annihilation? Where?
Where is your drug fixation, your flesh naked and torn to shards?

Liars, we’re all liars. We only remember ourselves. Selfish, unloving thus unlovable.

The Beloved seeks your love…. throw yourself into his Divine sea…. drown in Love and become a fish to be fished and consumed.

Don’t be stricken with the disease of forgetfulness, remembrance only in convenience. Throw away your old clothes of ignorance, heedlessness, haste and amnesia. Don the garbs of those who came before you who paved the way to the Divine reality.


* Read about Mansur Al Hallaj and his devotion here: