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.


A Poets Repentance.


How can poets repent?

When they carry the sin of every man and woman that lived before them and that will follow?

Maybe they don’t want to repent because repentance means giving up past vices
the vices that become their muses
the muses that fill their hearts with so much blood it tsunami’s into their mind
their mind can’t contain it
breaking ocean beds
smothering shores and pouring out into the pages of the city
swirling through drains
bubbling up through fountains
sweltering shop walls
drowning city halls
revitalising city parks
softening the foundations of sky scrapers
floating away old wooden shacks that have outlived their time
washing away the drunkenness of taverns
sobering the park bench inhabitants
cleansing the lanes from human waste.

Maybe they can’t repent because repentance means they can’t leave pen dents any more.
If they can’t dent a page
with love or rage
with lavender or sage
with wisdom of their age
with paying homage
to their forefathers gauge
how can they take the stage
of loves rib cage
give and engage
with the human masquerade?

Maybe they will be forced to repent
in which case
they’ll be the future generations embrace
the fire souls solace
the writer, rapper or activists brace
the stencils for children to trace
the soldiers about face of about face
the disbelievers worship place
the lovers lace
The freedom fighters giving chase
the farmers growth space
the peoples abandonment of haste.

Whichever way you look at it, a poet can’t repent, there’s things to be said which only the love off their tongue can expel and exorcise the demons out of us all with.

Priests, holy men and war mongers will all but surrender under the poets megaphone.

Be it as they may, torture them kill them or cut out their tongues, they cannot and will not repent.

To repent is to turn their back on everything past and future, severing the voice boxes of the children to come.

So off to martyrdom they go inviting death so that words may live.

Repentance after all is for the wicked!


Poets Feast


Tonight, we feast on words.
Even though we are separated by worlds.
Your ages so tender,
So full of splendour,
Colloquially speaking,
You’re mind benders.
And mine?
Battered, beaten and bruised,
Torn, healed, re-abused,
But, I remain amused.
At the possibilities ahead,
Just like you,
Open hearted to receive,
To conceive,
To achieve.
So raise the goblets in time,
And lets drink loves wine.




I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.

Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.

Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.

Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.

The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.

Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.

Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.


You can’t quell us!

cant quell us now

We have a bevy of quills,
Oceans as ink,
And forests of paper,
So how are you ever going to stop our ideas?
We have mountains as microphones,
Valleys as audiences,
Nature as our recording studio,
So how are you going mute us?
We have voices as machine guns,
Our spirit as fighter jets,
Our hearts as bombs,
So how are you going to win this war?
There’s things you can never win.
You can’t kill people to remove ideas.
You can’t sever limbs to shut people up.
And you can’t use warfare to rule human beings.
Writers, poets and thinkers will stop you in
your tracks and win the hearts of the masses
every time.