If a bird is rustling away,
in a man’s gutter,
racing to finish it’s nest before the storm,
if a grass blade flicks back dew into the air after being stepped on,
if a car rolls it’s wheel with a nail in it, percussing down the road,
or a child tugs at their mothers dress, unable to speak,
but longing for a suckle,
I hear, see and feel it all, so much at once.

Of the hardest thing to have learned,
is to muffle out this influx of stimuli,
only to relearn how to open it’s floodgates.

I unlearn when ugly is the streaming of happening,
I relearn, when I need to write it all for you to know.

The sight of stringing along a man,
cowardly taking material from him,
in exchange for the faint notion of a proxy security,
is the hardest thing to attempt to un-see,
and yet the most etched image in my mind.

Your gender,
does not give you the right to consume souls.


the slight of her hand, if only you’d understand


I see in metrics and measure,
the slight of your hand against his,
I know what your fingers search for,
but does he?

Is he aware you’d throw it all away,
if he’d just gaze once with his entirety?

And for this reason,
I, a man amongst men,
am more woman than most women,
willing to stare with more than my eyes,
fierce enough to punish yours,
with a ray into your soul,
until you’d do everything to hide your needs from me.

What more is left for a woman,
who’s had the stare she longs for pierce her soul,
except to veil her beauty for no other man to see.


not feminism


not feminism

once upon a time
newborn girls were buried alive
out of shame

the world hasn’t changed
now we have no shame
we just extend the funeral procession
and women are walking dead


Prior to Islam being established amongst the Arabs, Pagans, Christians, Jews and the like of the era would bury their female newborn alive.

A social norm, a collectively accepted and unquestioned custom.
At the outset of Islam, it abolished many social and cultural traits that were deemed inhumane, unjust and unlawful according to divine laws as prior espoused or by new dictates.

Women were to be offered rights the world had not seen or heard of,  seen in the light that they should be seen, the mothers of humanity, the only womb carriers, the only child bearers, in essence, the only warmth of mercy that can extend love appropriately to suckle humankind into social and spiritual cohesion.

This wave of beauty wouldn’t last long before men, being men do what they do and exhorting their social, political and physical dominance, interpreting texts and mandates as they see fit to suit their agendas and forcing a social oppression on the development of women.

Occasionally, a woman of grandeur would slip between the cracks of normality and society would see brilliance, mercy, beauty, kindness that was missing. Like a bosom engorging once again with milk that we all need to drink from after such a long pang of thirst from the origin of where we came from.

Such a woman, whether by force, or by the inability of the world to counter such beauty and mercy or whether it be by the utter mercy God may have protected her with comes and goes but they are looked at with marvel and disbelief. Heralded as saviours with utter ignorance of the perpetual miracles that take place daily in pregnancy, child birth and rearing amongst other meaningful and important things, albeit these things alone, placing her far above the achievements of men.

We now have male created industries of band aid solutions, with labels and slots conveniently appropriated, but otherwise monitored and manicured by men. Industries misleading women into a false ideal that they need to be represented by a silly label to be someone.

Well, it drains me, it literally anchors the soul of my existence to drudgery to have to constantly explain to both males and females alike, that not a soul possesses the right to oppress another soul, irrespective of gender.

In the context of the above, males reserve no right to hold women hostage, thus extending this pre-islamic cultural barbarity, spreading it beyond the pales of just ignorant Arab circles to the Colosseum of human fibre, to every nationality, religion and culture. Males, not religions, males, forcing their way on to women, entrenching our social narrative to appear on the surface with such labels as being pro-women, but in reality, still a cover of soil ready in their hands, to bury women’s voices, their opinions, their actions and their souls under the ground of our ignorance.

As such, my daughter does whatever my sons do. She will have to choose her path when I die and I would rather her raising her hands in litanies of hope for forgiveness and mercy for her father than calling upon Gods curse for the stifling I may have incurred.

I want no part of a male narrative ready to spit back into the womb that bore them. Ingrates, nothing more! There is nothing uglier than a man who will not acknowledge truth except on equal measure a woman that reinforces it or takes his words to be by default superior.

Superiority is through truth and action not gender and as Moses implored his Lord, I pray it manifests even if on my enemies tongue. I care not for the source as long as it is made manifest, truth after all is genderless, ironically why one of the meanings of the word Kufr is ‘covering’, in this context, a covering over truth.

It is knowing well in the pits of you the answer but choosing to intellectualise or philosophise against it for the establishment of nothing more than egotistical dominance.


return to foetus, always

return to foetus, always

there’s no shower long enough
no cloud soft enough
nor cocoon small enough
to keep you together sometimes

sometimes society is responsible for for the fabric of us
other times, we’re responsible for the fabric of you
were it not for our subtle reminders to you
through art, poetry and music
what a wretched life you’d posses.

there has to be people at the helm
soldiers of the outer
protecting soldiers of the inner
soldiers of body
protecting soldiers of soul
soldiers of blood and sinew
protecting soldiers of poetry and heart
all of them, soldiers of humanity

men and women
birthing warriors to live on
we need these anchors
to remind us of the bottomless oceans we’ve become
deep, dark, vast but empty
there’s no life in us
ever as blue as beauty can be painted
as a pill can claim you
as lifeless and cold as death

how do we return to foetus
if we’re cutting ourselves from the womb of mother nature
how do we bathe in its warm waters
if they won’t even allow our mother
to birth us the way she will come to know how
men, teaching women, what to do, when to do it,
women, quickly taking orders wanting to wear their pants
like they know more

if i have any advice to give, it is, women of the earth,
do not aspire to be men, be who you are,
you already have an advantage
keep your wombs warm with love inherent in you
if any of us will return to humanity
it will be for a longing pang for the
togetherness of your womb
the beat of your heart
the pulse of your vein


Same photography as yesterday, by David Uzochukwu

caves and dragons


Art by SaiKayden


caves and dragons

Why does a woman crying in the dark,
conjure empathy to crawl out of our hearts,
even if they’re as dark as ravenous caves,
whilst a man crying in the light of day,
unleashes from the same cave,
dragons of apathy,
in fire breathing disdain.


the double standards are real.
intentional or not
Why do you think so?

Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same


the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.


Art by Khalid Albaih



all women have secrets.
most men are afraid to ask.

for them,
marriage is a burdensome task
do I ask, don’t I ask,
do I ask, don’t I ask,

he afraid to,
she reluctant to tell,

both wearing masks.


ask her secret
or you won’t be able to hold her down
ask her secret
before you don’t find her bound
ask her secret
if you want to keep her around
ask her secret
and forever she’ll be your crown

tell your secret
if you want to keep him close
tell your secret
and he’ll heal you like aloes
tell your secret
and he’ll raise hair on neck and curl your toes
tell your secret
if you want to hear his prose