I want to know the turning point of when it became normal for someone to say, ‘I’m not judging’ a person when they find out that person has had an extra marital affair. At what point did society sell its backbone, moral nerve network and courage to the truth, in favour of cowardice, pseudo niceties, and immoral acceptance of lewd and reprehensible behaviour?
What am I missing?

How has it become normal to feel guilty to use words of condemnation against immoral behaviour and normal to excuse that behaviour with faux language of non judgement and reluctance to speak truthfully?

Where in time did the hijacking of language and moral compass take place so that we allow it become so rampant in our society, that by default, anyone that speaks out is supposedly policed and accused of being judgemental?

It should serve as a warning to all that we’ve become complacent and accepted the narrative of a few weasel like post modern pseudo activists who are so far disconnected from the reality of activism that they wouldn’t know what to do if someone stole their lunch money let alone what to do in a real life situation where wars break out and front line men and women are needed to bravely stand against real tyrants and real threats.

They cannot operate on the battlefield, nor in the capital or political spheres. They cannot rub shoulders with intellectual, spiritual or philosophical giants and so they have created a fake arena where they enlist the support of the naive layman to justify themselves not through proper dialogue and solid arguments but attempt to drown out narratives through numbers only.

Notions of patriarchy, false morality, pseudo activism and fighting for causes that just do not exist have become the only currency they can trade with.

Alas, I digress, it’s still our fault as a collective for not standing up to these shills and intellectual dwarfs who sit like trolls at the end of rainbows. Rainbows are, optical illusions after all, and trolls exist in so much as they believe in these illusions.




Accept insignificance.
Accept your folly.
Accept insofar that it humbles you.

Don’t accept being vulgar and self centred,
and loving yourself is the quickest ticket there.

I know my faults well,
we’ve wrestled until our pulse is one and the same,
we’ve wrestled until both are tame.

When they rise to take control,
I’m there to shut myself down,
when I rise as if accomplished and complete,
they remind me of how lowly I am.


I want poetry that gushes aloe

I’m stirring with prose,
speak only in gushing aloe to me,
ink me a letter that wreaks of agar and leather,
pained in cinnamon and crimson,
but let it be tender,
like a lash falling,
let it be real,
rolling thunder calling,
whisper your dialogue,
a silk worm crawling,
cut to the marrow of me,
a scimitar mauling.

Where are your words you claim to heal with,
that float like perfumed dew drops,
that soothe and hurt and clot?
I want your words to clot,
if it means silence until you find the right ones,
the right way,
or if it means violence with everything undone,
be aloe with what you say.


writing essence

Unless you’re burdened with a weight upon your shoulders,
a rumble in your belly that makes those near you quake and tremble,
hands that shake like a fein waiting for their fix,
and this happens daily, repetitively, perpetually,
ever a marriage you cannot divorce from,
you’re not writing from the seed of your creation.

There is a place for you still,
but it is not amongst those of us who need the nucleus of truth,
who care not if it means dousing ourselves and striking the match,
just to free a waft of poetic incense into the air of your doubt.

Confidence scares people,
foresight terrifies them,
intuition will make them think you’re a sorcerer,
and all this time, you’re just alone enough to hear the voices they quell.

Crack open the nut and cloak in the Qit-meer of truth

Qit-meer is the word for a lace like barrier that exists between a date seed and the date fruit. It is the filter like, one way passage that sucks all the bitter marrow out of the fruit and passes it through into the seed. Try as you may, a date is unbearable when it is unripe, but once the Qit-meer’s job is done, it is oft forgotten as the martyr that allowed you to enjoy a fruit of immeasurable benefit. Sweetness is often the extrovert, whilst the introvert who absorbed it all remains pale and fragile, withered and forgotten.

metaphor of words


Do you ever feel like you have to define words, concepts things for yourself with such magnitude you become lost in the process and end up writing poetry?

That’s what I have found I have been stuck in for the greater part of my life.
All this unwritten stuff, the experiences of my life, stuck in the quicksand of me and now, it forces its way out.

This propulsion towards distilling the mud of all that I have come to know, to churn the butter, filter to an elixir, wipe the table of knowing, clean for another loaf to knead.

This bread may or may not be enough to feed me, but secretly in the depths of murky cavities, in the pits of my ego, I want others to eat from it.

I find myself smirking at others when I read they want to romanticise the reasons they write as being ‘for themselves’. I don’t believe that, I can’t believe that, perhaps because as much as I’d like to join them in their frivolous narcissism, I have been acquainted with the gnaw of my ego for too long.

We write to be heralded as writers, to be heard, to make acquaintance with other egos and perhaps then, the real test begins. Are we willing to pacify our ego and quell it towards the quiet of humility or does it become supercharged to inflated proportions? I believe the death of a writer is in the later, and the growth comes in the former. You may write a blockbuster, but you’ll probably write mediocre shit after that if you let it get to your head.

It seems that I have automatically steered myself to a process of distilling my existence through words. Filtering out all the useless, making way for definitions, anecdotes, musings, aphorisms and litanies of comprehension to write my own dictionary of words and meanings.

I find myself zeroing in on a word only then to magnify it, draw brainstormed stalactites falling off the word, resembling mental bominockers, and have them float in the orbit of my mind until they attract and associate other words, meanings, experiences and so on.

When those bominockers are complete, they break out of orbit, spill on to paper or speech and settle into the pages of me. A weight, ironically taken out of a weightless orbit, settled into belly and regurgitated when needed.

How on earth can a thought, an emotion, a word heard make us feel so heavy if it is not for the allegories we create in our mind of what they mean. Why does our heart sink when we hurt and juxtaposingly, when we love? What is it about hearing those words or feeling those emotions that conjures sinking if not this metaphorical association?

Perhaps some writers do this more than others, or can illicit it in others more than some writers and why we take to them more than others.

What I do know, is I can smell an unimaginative one who has taken no time with themselves a mile away. Who’s in love with the idea of writing but doesn’t read, doesn’t write several times a day and can’t weave in palatable ideas into their writing.

Perhaps find something else to do, not that it bothers me you keep writing meaningless shit, perhaps all of this is in fact a note to myself and my soul is tired of my minds squabble and ego’s stench.


By extension by featheredsleep

For half wits who think they can just fart their fantasies on a page and label themselves a writer. I’m fucking thirty eight, been writing since I was eleven years of age and will only consider myself a writer when I’ve written a handful of books that sell a few hundred thousand copies at least. Until then, I’m just a prattler with a pen.
Don’t be a wanker with a pen,  learn something, or better yet read something and indirectly learn how to meter words, sentences, cut out fodder, and write something other than a porn mags regurgitation.

The piece is by a talented lady who’s alias is ‘featheredsleep’ on WordPress. If you like the written word, she’s got tonnes of it. Check her out if you have some time.

By extension –

Giving birth to the earth



The moment where words that lived with me so long,


They stand at the departure gate of my lips,
And you know,
Once they turn their back,
It will be moments before they take flight,
To belong in someone else’s home.

Words, those gypsies,
Finding new homes,
Were they ever meant to depart,
And leave me alone?

They’re the children you give birth to,
And live with you for all those years,
Then one day, they leave you,
Awash with loneliness’s tears.

But a writer is fertile,
Always able to fall pregnant,
Our bellies are always swollen with words,
Waiting to give birth,
Always rotund, large of girth,
In one parable, one paragraph,
Back bent with the weight of the earth.
It’s a labour of love,
This labour of a lifetimes worth,
For the one line,
Sometimes a lifetime,
We’ll wait, we’ll search.
We’re not just writing, speaking, prattling,
With our words,
We’re giving birth,
To the earth.


Poets Cup

poets cup

Were it not for a poets cup being small,
None of you would taste our wine,
Alas we fill and goblets fall,
Spill our hearts through ancient vine.
‘Tis not the wine of absent mind,
But the elixir of word-smith kind,
Of hearty matter,
Of earthly grind.
Be at the tavern, be with the divine,
There you’ll see us, there you’ll find.
And all will be revealed,
Refill and spill, until the end of time.


The drink is forbidden for us and we pour endless poetry.
Whilst you drink your hearts content and pasture with cattle.
The dignity is in holding yourself together, fort-like in any situation, head bowed in gratitude in humble recognition.
Leave the drop for the numb and in pain.
Connect through the well worn paths, travelling alone never amounted to anything but time wasting and frivolous ego entertainment.
In spite of being on the brethren’s paths, it is still you, alone in your affairs, accomplishing what others would not dare.