the world is what we attach ourselves to

have you

ever wandered home one night,
looked for loot and found all uptight?

not a morsel to be found,
the wheels of life, run
aground.

ever strolled then upon a neighbour's terrain,
looking for crumbs,scraps stretched across like the secret mole of lorraine.

have you

ever bit your lip till your breath taste red,
had your stomach twisted, turned and tilted with hot lead?

ever held your hips as they shrivelled sin-wards,
or bit your nails till your fingers yelped tin-words?

ever stretched your sack upon the winter's sun,
looked for gold. rice. water.
and found.
just.
none?

ever gazed up at the dried blue sky,
and wished for vultures. angels. God himself.
somebody.
to bid you a lie?

have you

ever looked upon a stranger with lust in your eyes,
for just a piece, a square, a morsel
of that pie or
slice?

ever gazed at the difference all around,
wondered
last week,
last month,
last year,
last life,
to justify
just. why. exactly
was your pitiful fate?

what then is this hunger you wish to write about,
as you dig into your lunch
you ripe, pipe, type
of witing-lout?

what achievement seek you on that blank space of sea,
with words, idioms, metaphor
when its mostly just really
lavish black tea?

doing a great thing arent you now,

thinking ink could ever replace blood on the revolutionary plough?

think again, sir, please do,
for your words are like,
nothing,
but,
super,
ghoo.

but still, writing selectively about vagabonds powers you, my son.
be it farcicial, nonsensical and categorically without pun.

get a life dear boy, get a life, i say!

or get your hands dirty and
slay the life, without the balet.

the world is what we attach ourselves to,

nothing more, nothing less,

and you my friend,

are still too attached to self,

to confess.

war of the doves; cloves; pussycat dolls

dangerous, destructive,
inspiring, belittling,
vivavious, contagious,
moorish, boorish, savaged,
even ravaged.

the doves met one day. in error.

the kittens purred while the pussy cats twirled,
hurling love to mate,
diagnosing lust for hate,
the little dog barked, be it without much fun,
and the dishwasher choked on the spoon.

the doves met another day. in error.

the lovers soared on the spiteful late,

incombustible, incorruptible,
dashing, painless, sliding, trembling,
easily fitting in spaces unfitting,
almost beautiful asunder,
making tales,
seem
almost
real.

****

no, it cant be.

the doves met one last time.

in error.

enigmatic would be pure.
if love would'nt hate.

It's like I'd rather write than live

Its like conversations within
are no more than the thoughts without.

It's somewhat, yet clearly, seemingly,
less real,somewhat, yet clearly, seemingly less mortal.

Yet intensity, fervour make it no less tiresome,
no less tragic, no less disapointing,
no less enigmatic, than the world outside.

It's like living moments pass by,
though still lingering on;
script but one
escape from living pain.

It's that recluse, that
moment of stepping out, into (my) shadow.

It's like i'd rather write than live,
I'd rather just live through it being written.

It's like worshipping darkness,
thriving on its very spiraling misdeeds,
its an intoxicating lure,
some damaging escape, some exhilirating break-away,
of demonic, stone-plastered labrinyth tunnels
outside this and inside another,

folded in an outer-self

where kids, dwarfs, all introvert-like beings pick-up

deep beneath, closing their eyes, folding their palms into silent prayers,

wanting the world to change, waiting for its people to embrace,

waiting for love to be loved.

But is there such a place where
birds exchange tone, share a slimy worm, where
kids still stare wide-eyed at natures course, where
fairytales float like candy-coated dandelions, and where
blooming flowers trick seasons to dance with sailing orange and brown leaves on
autonomous romantic rudders?

Oh heavenly ponder, this place is not real.
Only dwelled, imagined, formed upon
strands of thin thread, of tightened ropes and melted trees.


It's like i'd rather write than live,
I'd rather just live through it being written.

It would be rather less mortal.

lessons in brussels

that...

1. finding good friends is obligatory for a healthy mind
2. Being yourself is sometimes the hardest thing to pull off
3. freedom is not just another phrase
4. love is not something that just happens
5. love is something that can just happen
6. beauty is really in the eye of the beerholder: one man's fat is another man's wealth.
7. moleskin books are really for pansies
8. learning another language wont take you to heaven, but it will get you laid
9. getting out is sometimes the hardest part
10. pumps make women look natural

11. sitting on a random corner of a random street in a random city makes no sense, teaches you nothing - but you just might...
12. Opera's are really just exaggerated soap operas. oh.
13. skies cant be rented - even for the european capital
14. some arabs really look like their pets (camels)
15. international cities can really exist...after you colonize Congo

social media's role in highlighting Iran's post election issues

who would you save?

Q: so you're a muslim on a rubber dingy. you know condoms are haraam but this is no ordinary rubber, duffer. you are out at sea. obviously your boat sank or left you when you went to shag a shark, and now you are pretty fucked because you're on this dingy as i said.

the problem is that there are two others drowning in front of you. one is muslim and one is not muslim. but your shitty rubber ding-a-ling can only take one more.

Q. Who do you save? And how would you go about deciding who to save?

A. I will save the non-muslim cos apparently they don't go to heaven.

I encourage "authentic" responses too all those who wish to engage with this question that was ACTUALLY posed. Charming, i'd say.

praising you

Dear Lord,

I thank you for the bounties you have bestowed on me.

But I must admit that feel terribly embarrassed to have in my possession an ass-kicking ruby-red ipod.

Lord, its so awesome; I merely flash it and the Deccan girls raise a leg n reveal matching panties.

I want to assure you that I know that an ordinary mp3 player does the job, and anything else is mere luxury and unnecessary. I am embarrassed, dear Lord, for the vanity of choosing the sexy, saucy shellfish of a pod that does no justice to your cause, makes no difference to anyone's future and only deepens our dependence on shiny things.

I remember reading or hearing at one of the few lectures I have been to - that the holy Prophet - despite his wealth - used to eat dates and not imported prawns from Mozambique. His simplicity was his wealth; his thoughts & actions the real shiny stone.

I don't like to rat people out - and I am not qualified in anyway to report to you - but I really think that those who follow sunnats; flanked by lavish cars, clothes and gadgets are really mocking his ideals of a world where equality should be strived for, where poverty ought to be abolished and where man/woman should stand shoulder to shoulder/breast to breast as one single mass of collective equals.

It makes me angry, dear Lord, when people praise your name for their exclusionary luxury.

They take your name in vain, oh Lord, as they satisfy and quench the seas of their earthly desires.

They qualify such by your grace to afford us aptitude and skill to produce amazing feats, but hold less thought for those who suffer without basic neccesity.

How shalt we praise you with such disregard?!

Lord, I am angry.

The anger makes the ions in my blood seethe into combustible clouds....

I think they can take their beliefs, scarves and miswaks and stick it where the sun don't shine. I am not judging them, Lord. Okay, may be I am, just a little, but I am just saying that they making masti with the logic of your law and whoring it a world of accumulation that has no sizable place in your love.

regards & heavenly praises,
Freelance hero.