trade off


Poetry is how I repent,
and I,
am the greatest sinner.

I’m aware of where inspiration comes from,
there is a price to pay for everything,
and I’m driven mad,
with accounting myself.

The greater the urge to rid myself of fodder,
the easier the pen flows.

The decision to be drowning in prose,
means you also exorcise your demons relentlessly.


Painting by Hossein Irandoust Moghadam


Intimacy with silence

I adore your poise,
your pose, and your noise,
that is, your lack thereof.

How orchestral is your quiet,
majestic is your silence,
this deafening and drumming of nothing at once,
this wonderful humming of quiet and calm.

I’m mad I say, deeply mad,
obsessed with ears that listen,
and a mouth that’s mute.


The beautiful picture is by Hossein Irandoust

Perhaps once upon a time my soul met his in this abyss of pre-world obedience and silence.
I’m infatuated by his work to say the least.

In coffee cups

‘it was caffeine she was after, not her fate’ – Elif Shafak, The bastard of Istanbul.
Genius writer
Is it my fate I’m chasing,

in all these copious amounts,

of coffee drinking.
Is it an answer from the unknown,

I’m waiting to be shown,

holding to account,

a coffee bean,

a baristas hand,

to black and gold elixir sinking.
I need an inkling,

a semblance,

a sign,


to steer me,

show me,

and enhance my thinking.

Elif is the #muse of the day. 




If you cannot see,
that the reward for obedience,
is obedience,
then you are void of obedience,
and have no business,
demanding a reward.

even if you are obedient,
seeing your obedience,
is self-aggrandising,
and since you witness yourself so well,
you will be called to account,
against yourself.

And the one rancid in disobedience,
aware of their disobedience,
may just reap the reward you so seek,
from the remorse and brokenness of their state.



Spiritual miser



My teacher has said from day one,
of the very first time I heard his voice,
sat in front of him,
folded legs, bent at the hips,
protruding towards him,
the old fashion way,
my heart facing his,
his state annihilating mine,

He said, “When you ask, what it costs, if the path had a tongue, it would reply ‘ Everything you got’ “.

What are we willing to pay for spiritual clarity, for the real stuff, not the junk that looks good on social media, or has you walking around smelling of incense.
The real stuff. Would you be willing to become a beggar and vagrant?
Not that this is the metric of measurement for spirituality, but the readiness and indifference were you to become it, most definitely is.

Here I am in all my arrogance, thinking my offerings make me some kind of aspirant, and I am yet to crawl let alone take a noble step.

-Wesam El dahabi

whispered wails

It used to hurt,
To be aware.

But this  my Solomon moment,

Where a creature like me,
Let me hear it’s tale,
Sagely it whimpered across,
Not a gnostic,
But a snail,
Asking me to spare it with its whispered wail.

And this was it’s advice to me,

Be exile,
Be annihilated,
Remove everything , until you move slower,
Until you savour the moment,
And leave behind a residue of you,
Tracks for others to find your secret.

And I’ve been obsessed with this moment for weeks,
A daily walk turned into divine advice,
From the most introverted creature,
Afraid no one cares for its shell.

Needless to say,
I went into hyper-drive awareness of anything moving,
I need all the advice I can get.

How do you move slower,
Except by removing all things that race in your life?


This is an actual photo of my wise friend.