It’s that simple

Thank you to @sirenbella_23 for showing me this. 

Written by @heelturnpoet 

Sums it all up quite easily.
My thoughts
Let’s see your intellectualism now you war mongers. Let’s see your nationalistic pride, your patriotic ignorance, your prejudice and white supremacy laced privileged arses defend with the empty rhetoric of political jargon, lambasted through air waves, bombed into the minds of cattle-like consumers who just soak up this idiotic rhetoric like it fucking means a single thing.
Complicating the uncomplicated. 

Admit you’re greedy motherfuckers, admit you would trade hundreds of lives for a tenth of a decimal point increase in your stock value, your gun toting, bullet, bomb making, world destroying manufacturing, war industry and all the tangent business you run alongside it. 

Your folly is so pronounced though, you fail to realise amongst all these populations you seek and destroy, that amongst them may be your geniuses, your inventors, doctors, engineers, scientists, humanitarians and so on. 

You fail to realise that if you should promise children a life of education without conditions, that is, not education according to your destructive forced agendas of social engineering, that you may enhance your bottom line, that you may increase your profits. 

Teach people to offer their service, teach them through every way possible, through love, let them have their own cultures to share with the world, let them be paid, let them live in comfort and line your pockets further, we don’t care. 

Why on earth would you slay your chances with war, medication that kills, with diseases spread around to depopulate, with agendas of pillage and theft, of dehumanising people just so you can profit your measly sums when you could profit more by involving the whole human race.
The ‘owners’  of the monetary systems are the dumbest businessmen and women on earth. Utterly dumb. What will happen when there’s but a handful of you left and your seed (because we know your impotence and infertility is growing at alarming rates) will cease? Kill each other then, you war mongers. 

#poetry #writing #love #war #syria #refugees #aleppo #people

What language do you speak?


If language is your only form of expression,
You are poor.

My mother speaks the same language as your
mother. Nine months she learned it perfectly.

Now you pretend not to know me,
Not to understand me,
Tongue tied pronouncing my name.

When all mothers speak the language of the womb
The same.

My blood has similar syllables to yours,
My DNA, entwined, coded in the same elucidation,
My breath, needs the same enunciation,
Ffffmmmm, hhhuuhhh, the same breath brother, the same exhale.

You’ll find our R’s roll the same way we rolled in our mothers bellies.
You’ll find our B’s are responsible for breaking and bonding.
You’ll find our L’s lull the same baby’s to sleep,
You’ll find our meter, synchronised to the same heart beat.

Why are you so bereft of the letter H?
H for Hello, Human, accept my Humble, Hospitality, it’s my Honour, to Help, to Hear you, I Hope you’re Happy, Here in my Heart, together we’ll Hover in Heaven.

Do I need to pronounce the whole alphabet to realise how stupidly hopeless it is to pretend we don’t understand each other?



Do we really care?
Or are we, just like the sufferers, longing to escape what our souls have seen?
Those who have been amputated from the body of their homes, seen flesh and sinew become fertiliser for the soil they once lived on, watched cities of proud ancients reduced, and looked at the sea for hope, because drowning is safer than staying.
Are we just as ambitious as they are to be rid of all these images in our minds, drinking the elixir prepared so well for us, trying to be numb in a different way?
One of us wants to be numb to build a new future for their children.
The other wants to be numb to forget a past for our children.
Both of us, afflicted with the same ailment.

Introversion – twenty one



I walk the streets with a frown on my face
But it’s not anger, rather, it’s distaste
I look around and feel so out of place
That’s why I keep people at a measurable pace
I just can’t swallow society with its mediocrity laced
I can’t join in the cyclical rat race
I watch mundaneness foster and take up space
I watch people hold lameness to sweet embrace
I watch sacredness humiliated and disgraced
I watch intimacy stripped and defaced
I watch sincerity fall behind outpaced
I watch humility laughed at and red-faced
And love, nothing more than first base, second base, third base
Humans in general? Numbers in a database
I’m a foreigner feel like an ornament misplaced
Time for me to leave, pack up my suitcase
To go unnoticed and leave un-chased
Leave intact but live with grace.

There is a difference with being alone and loneliness. Although I revel in being alone, the loneliness ensues when I take a look around and really feel out of place in otherwise normal gatherings. A simple act like going to a cafe or going to the beach and I can get overwhelmed from all the stimuli. Noises, sounds, people, conversations, objects, movement, weather, environment, fragrances and more, all come alive and poke at my senses with vigour, invoking internal dialogue and analysis and the oft repeated pattern of words above ensues.


The Elixir 9 – Be Unnoticed


Sometimes, the best way to be together with humanity is to recluse yourself into obscurity.

Thirteen years ago I raised my hands to my Lord on the steps of his house and said, “God, make me invisible”, and it has been the most peaceful years of my life.

This way you not only relieve your ears and heart from the turbulence of humans, but don’t give them a reason to sin and belittle or backbite you.

In essence, it is the ultimate love of your fellow man to display, you looking after their tongue whilst they cannot.

You won’t taste the fruit of union until you have suffered the pangs of separation.


The sacrifice of Being


For Me to Be, I had to
allow you to consume
            – my humanity

How do I live free? The price is not something most are willing to pay.

You’ll have to settle for being called crazy. You’ll have to settle for being looked at with disgust.  You’ll have to have have a spine a mind and an attachment to the divine.

Your skin will need to be thick, your bones strong and robust and jaw solid because they will steal years from you, claw at your appearance and try to squander your character with battering rams.

To them you’re mad, sad, a little bad and on most days a nomad.

You can’t have time for broken hearts, they’re for panderists and you don’t want anyone’s sympathy.

They won’t allow your You.
They want their You, so lose your human attributes, become an it, they, them, this, they’re or some other, become anything but who you are and they’ll let you be.

Just don’t be you, because if you are, the pain of them realising that they can’t Be, will gnaw at them until they won’t let you Be either.

Point in all, you have to lose your humanity, seem a little odd, be a label of some sort, dust it off and accept freedom.

Ode to father carries on



Continued from: Here


Now that I’m drained, now that he’s drained, bare, naked and stripped of our attributes. Attributes that kept us upright, but here we find ourselves fallen, ironically towards each other, two towers leaning on each other and yet holding each other up. That’s what it took. A baring of our sacredness, a stripping of our egos, no fight left in us both, guards down, ready to cop it on the chin and embrace it, embrace each other, even so, chins exposed, none have the power to knock the other out, none have the power to even throw a one, two. The array of combinations we’d let loose before, and now, nothing, both satisfied not to hurt the other.

I can see his humanity, always have, I couldn’t admit it. He never saw mine, so how could he admit to something he knew not about? I had to write the first ode, I had to let him know I saw him. I had to let him know I saw that he thought that no one saw him. How many fathers are like him, toil away and none of what they do gets noticed, gets written about, gets exalted. Oh the station mothers have enjoyed, and the deprivation the fathers have endured, this is not fairness, this is short sightedness, this is human shortcoming.

The tears that don’t stream down their cheeks burn pathways in their hearts as they hold themselves together as forts. Sixty six years is enough, eventually it burned down into his bowel. The pain of not being seen. Not only by me, my family, but his direct family.

Now illness manifest, reality cannot lay dormant and like the lion that it is, it roars and wakens the jungle of ignorance up. His family can hear, can see, can feel. They all flock to him, his illness an expiation for all. We know man is expiated for his sins even if a thorn to afflict him. My fathers illness expiated everyone as they all flocked to him, eyes in hands, catching their tears as they acknowledged him.
His illness returned their sight, his illness broadened mine.

I made sure my mother read and translated the first ode to him. When I came home that day, he had tears in his eyes, he begged and asked me how I knew, how I saw. I later found out that he and my mother wept together as they read it.

Maybe my job as a son was to document some of his accomplishments. So many men are remembered with their life’s work when they pass. Artists, writers, gnostics and so. Superficially he is none of these. Hidden and un-manifest, he is all. His craftsmanship, his prose and his art, was sacrifice. It wasn’t relegated to a material thing, something bought and sold, marvelled at on the walls of the mundanely inspired, no his life work was – passing on life. Chiselling away at himself to give to me, to my brother, to my sister and now to our children, he continues a new generation. Bits and pieces falling from him, and into our bellies. We are fortunate to see it, we are fortunate to be aware.

So here I stand, attempting to put into words but failing, how do I write about being a human? I cannot, the only way is to do as he did, sacrifice, pass on the bits of myself, chisel away, chipping until someone grabs a remnant and keeps it alive.

I have a lineal record of all my ancestry. We’re of noble blood, but noble blood means nothing without action. It cannot save me, only sacrifice will save me. Letting go of all the unsightly traits, the soil that is not presentable before God. Perhaps that is why my father preferred the company of the earth rather than of men. A reminder of what soil is beneficial and what soils us.The life giving soil and the soil that is ugly and not fit to present in front of His Majesty.

His health improved, for a week. I couldn’t believe it. Slowly but surely he digressed back and other ailments took over. My fear of exposing him to the myriad of unnecessary tests and prodding, of poking around and enticing. I know what happens to the body when you push and push. I’ve been there, self inflicted I push until something goes pop. Something always goes pop. So a few weeks later he’s back in hospital, his body drained. God’s work, God’s way of reminding us all who we are. Pray dad, pray. Nothing else matters except your devotion. Stay devoted. Stay true. It’s hard though with your body and carnal self calling the opposite way. ‘Don’t worry’, they say, ‘God is forgiving, just indulge’. Oh the oft demanding self. It clings on to every opportunity of weakness to keep you abased. Our masters have taught us to talk to it, to demand of it, to command it, to whip it into submission and servitude to us so that as a whole we can remain in servitude to our Lord.

The next saga begins, trying to make sense of it all as a scientist sifts through real data and pseudo data, as an investigator skirmishes through every last bit of observable evidence and delves deeper into his gut. There’s that line. That line I have to cross where I tap into a different unobservable realm to make a decision for him, for me, for us all. I can feel the weight on my shoulders. This is not going to be easy.