the stupor


Look at your feet,
struggling to find cadence,
a balancing act of blame,
and forgiveness.

Won’t you hear my cues,
of devotion and hypocrisy,
as I met out my mettle,
with fervent jealousy.

I puncture  my reality,
so you can see we’re all filled with holes,
so you can stop assuming you’re complete,
that you’re burdened with displaying whole.

There’s no need for all this,
for the bathe in the mud of your thoughts,
know that all this prattling and nonsense,
is a trap, in you’re ego you’re caught.

Drink then a goblet,
a flask or a barrel,
numb out your self,
with sobriety of truth,
knowing it’s your ego that quarrels.




Futuwa is the Muslim concept of putting others before yourself.
It can also be translated into chivalry.

When heard in colloquial circles, chivalry is understood as a noble and gallantry quality that knights used to possess when dealing with maidens and princesses.

But true Futuwa is not attached to self absorbency, nor is it a complete detachment from the self. The self is very much alive and kicking until our last breath. It is just that those who practise Futuwa, hear the self loudly, know it’s hiding spots, know how to draw out the utterness of it’s most base requests and quell it, so as to be of utter service to others instead.

So still, there is an underlying service of the self, indirectly.

By relinquishing the oft call to serve oneself, to put ones needs before others and engage in this myriad of current trending and disastrously ineffective and selfish mantras of putting ‘me’ first, be it in the way of self love, self care, self help, and instead taking the path of servitude to others through choice, through total and conviction filled devotion, one reaps the benefits without them knowing. They illicit indirect self care and very direct appreciation from others, be it manifest and pronounced or temporarily in passing from the receiver of help, albeit, the goal still is not to win appraisal, not to seek the rewards of recognition, but just to do, whatever it is one has to do for the sake of goodness and morality, for empathetic purpose and fulfilment of trust that we are endowed with by God.

The land, people, things, riches all do not belong to us, how can they when WE don’t even belong to us.

I see circles of talk steering people to this empathetic path, but it is not a new concept, just because someone has coined it with a new term or marketable name.

It is, and always will be Futuwa and it is married to Muslim doctrine, most especially Sufi doctrine where it is taught in simple yet very engrossing detail. The sheer and brutal honesty of the way it is taught by their masters does one of two things. It almost always smashes the idols of self worship inside ones self, but it either makes the receiver of the knowledge bow and submit their ego, placing it on to the altar of truth for sacrifice, or it blows their ego up to gigantic proportions in rejection of it. Still, they know the truth inside, it’s just their choice on what to do with it and it’s at that moment right there, where you know if you are self absorbed and selfish or truly selfless.



Just because you shed your skin,
it doesn’t change who you are,
we’re but a mixture of hot and cold,
phlegm and vapid,
lore and lies.

Peeling is not the same as shedding,
you have to find the semblance of yourself,
in the grotesque,
languish and bathe,
in what doesn’t perfume you immediately.

You have to be willing,
to put up with your stench,
if you want to sift through,
the sewage of all that doesn’t matter,
to find what does.


Echoes of who you are

I don’t know how to show you except by telling you.
Whilst the act of doing is better than the act of saying,
that’s only because people don’t know how to say.

But what if I showed you the way,
with words connected carefully,
weaved intentionally,
delivered in a bouquet,
as lyrical ballet,
and show you how to stretch your skin tight,
so your heart can beat right,
and the club that beats it,
is your soul set alight.

There’s no room for a dishonest soul.
I have to gather myself together and fight me with me.
Pit myself against myself.
Fuel both and ignite them so they combust and turn to vapour.


origami poker

-origami poker
i’ve folded inside myself so many times,
and i’ll probably do it again.
i’m naive like that,
assuming everyone needs a card or two.
i can’t poker face for shit.
if i have a set of cards, i’ll show them.
if my hand is empty, will you share yours?


not many people have what it takes to straight face you,
to warm embrace you,
with sincerity enough,
to efface you.

i melt towards those people like chocolate on a tongue,
stuck on a palate,
after-taste lingering in me.

i’m loyal like that.

if you treat me with an ounce of kindness,
i don’t forget,
so it utterly shatters my entire being,
when i reciprocate in kind,
and through the abased nature of narcissist privilege,
you assume i have to give you more than my loyalty.

another part of me too sacred to touch,
a place I hate about myself so much,
but you want to appease your fetishes with.

how easy it is for them to chew my flesh,
back-bitten with disregard and repress,
slander me, without shame you undress,
the unfamiliarity of who i am and oppress.

i’m but a stranger to them, not even a piece of bread,
nor glass of water, have we shared,
yet still, my honour, my name, my being
lied against without care.

i won’t forgive you until you acknowledge your doing,
come clean with the poisonous seeds you’ve sewn,
and come out of the skin of the snake you own.

i’m a recluse by nature,
but did you think you could bite me with your poison,
and I not develop my own venom?

take these words instead as a final bouquet of peace to you,
come clean,
or i’ll lay the last bouquet on your graves, ey-vallah.

and it will not be by physical means at all,
i’ll raise my hands skyward and your whole progeny will cease,
be buried in your womb.


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.