Letter I

Unleashing the good inside shortly yet intensively is essential for me to keep on going. This has nothing to do with trust or love or compassion in the sense of interaction. It is rather about letting things out that overgrow their space and need to find their cycle. It has also nothing to do with evil or bad; I do not believe in binary oppositions no more, nor do I believe in any absolute relativity. I have got a lot of rage, a lot of indifference and a lot of every other bit of nouns and adjectives. I have no problem with the "I."

love for humanity? I have no idea about such sentences. I care for people, because I rant. I rant therefore you call it caring. I have no problem with the "you" either. 

My mom taught me that art is not taste. Art is written with a capital A when it is in the beginning of a sentence. It is just there; you may do it, let it out, practice it or digest it. I unleash art, but I am not an artist. What is art? A question with an adjective. Questions with adjectives are not questions. I have no problem with the "?"

Fucking an animal is brutal. For they say that animals have no free will. I have no free will, but you are most welcome to brutalize me. I hate dogs, yet a dog once loved me, even though, I did not own him, nor I once fed him. I did not fuck the dog, he was not my type, however, I grew some ranting (caring) towards him. I am sure he would have loved to make love to me, if I showed an interest. We both had no free will, thus we could have fucked. I have no problem wit the "it."

My father created many disfigured gods all around me once. gods are cool when you are little, for you can fear and fuck with them at the same time. I convinced myself that fearing my father is fucking with him. You cannot be ambiguous when it comes to them. There is always a "post" before Trauma. 

My body is weak. And I am sealed with chemical grace. I make no difference in terms of Mathematics. Biology is all what matters along with architecture. Everything else is secondary. 

I have to whine every now and then and it is not about the death-thing, not even the life-thing. Whining is necessary for health reason, it is good Bacteria. It even gets you laid sometimes. 

Causality does not by any means scare the hell out of me.  

Y&Z

Y&Z

All gone wild down the road of your marble belly. All gone astray within your orgasm scream. The raging armies of the half fucking/half loving plunder the hazy fields between us, and amongst the glowing ships of words unthought-of, the days swap their marks. Guitars sound like pianos; you are me and I am the burning clock around your wrest.

The rivers of neglect, where we all once sailed speed up the grin to a wretch-smile. Long sentences uninhibited by verbs are the taste of your lips. The sourness of your vagina haunts the fascist lamp hanging from every ceiling, the masochist scratching-concerto of solitude. I have nothing left but those ancient memories of ungentle fucking to feed on. I have nothing left but undefined hate of any beauty.

There was no light; only cracking bones and bullets snap shots and mad kisses with a flavor of death and brave children dying under your breath and spies selling revolutionary posters and camels slaughtered and dogs crying and swines flying and cocks and Heckler&Kochs and sweating winds and needful things and golden teeth and plastic wedding rings and beards and cubic hair and milk and vinegar and tears and rain and blood and freedom on an electric chair… and then was light … light.

Of late, I became of short breath, for I found out that I love you in spite of all the odds. So I prepare the knife, the pool, the oath, the requiem and the morbid prayers. My weak hand shouted my secret and thus, before you I lay all the broken promises I can think of; in return, I ask of you to pour me the wine of your drowning years, and smile! Smile for all that is to come and I shall collect what is to be missed. Speed is all that counts, speed is all what counts.

The invaders of your womb are all my imaginary friends now. Sobriety creeps upon my skin and the fleets of complacency burned the city of your make-belief. The suns sinking in your furious hair mock my glassy eyes and all the grey skies are dragged down to the feet of a scoundrel spring.

Sloth

Sloth

Give me ends untold by the crimson lords. Spread words of hatred upon the marooned heads of time. Creep along with me, creep along. Split the atoms of scattered loves and call for a halt (H: hungry, A: angry, L: lonely, T: tired).

I am all the adjectives, the sweet tragedies, the weary tunes, I am the faces behind the fire, the snow flecks on your skin, the grace of your decaying sight, I am punctuation, I am the spectator’s satisfaction. I am the aching honey.

Oh Muse I curse you, I heave you a sigh.

My ancestors the pharos half naked taught me how to hunt death, to idolize it. Half naked they visit my dreams and paint my soul with ancient runes and bring me a blue sun, a Nubian harp and long defeats. Half naked they inject the “bastard wisdom” of patience into my soul. Half dead they smile my life away.

My mother; the pure blood shoots them flies while standing on the whimpers of mermaids. My mother the pure blood plays the lead guitar in a symphony of light. She inhales heavens and exhales Hell. My mother the pure blood spanks the dreams out of me and fills me with broken gods. She restores arms and cuts the aid. My mother the pure blood dies in my grip and gets resurrected in my aging back.

Oh Muse I beg you, I light you a darkness.

I capture you my sweet child, I buy all the things, the deeds and the moments. I capture you my sweet child, I bestow poetry on you, I bless you with Blue and bathe you in forgetfulness.

My death is your Love to which the crystals of boredom are forged.

Subjective Dizziness: Bad Writing

Subjective Dizziness

Bad Writing

Lines are made linear and I human. I need the beat, I sing the bite and breathe the shut doors of your maroon soul. I can’t skip the I, oh what shall I do? She never hugged me; she embraced me like a Jazz god heaving his thorny tunes. Oh she loved me, but no more, no more.

She is not my dream. She is my pocket money savior. I am too many adjectives. She is The Verb. No doubt she will be better off without me, no doubt.

Writing is never therapy; it is a deed just like any other. My short sentences are evidence of a long ongoing life full of “one damn thing after the other.” Do you wish to know me? What for? Why so? You really don’t. Writing is just an act of moving fingers, lips-biting and stained sheets. Just don’t, for I have nothing to show you.

She was a white smooth pillar burning the sun and darkening the moon. She brought the ends and cut the years. She discovered the here and consumed the now to the limit of mad sanity. She gave the yeses and fired the nos. She believed and believed and believed but never had faith. She smiled out of tears and wept within the silent laughter. She loves.

And loneliness prevails. Amongst the shouting tunes and crying solos you have got no place to mend your wings. Those raving promises you speak utter you. Climb the surface of your shell and throw me a nod my spoiled angel. Mention me in your iron prayers; in exchange, I will watch over you. You weave the truths, you play lead guitar, you free the land, you capture time and you shed me out of your blood.

She fought the wind and stole the frost. She flew over reality’s head and dived into the heart of wait. She sang the impossible and fled the possible. She needs no metaphors.

Bread is made of sweat and I of letters.

-Pre

-Pre

In this abyss of a soul remained untaken, I chose to wander joyfully till the verge of death. I am joyfully dead. This soul owns me. I am a perfect slave. I serve not my master; I serve his whip. I fuck the soul of my master’s mistress and piously I let her fuck me. My master knows not about this enterprise, he needs not to. Master is worried about things.

The next pages are always dirty of emptiness, and those who bless us with wine and blood ejaculate our lives. They build a narrative and let us bleed for more. Their kindness is overwhelmingly generous. We tell no stories; we are stories with only an ending. Those who bless us do not know our names; we suck theirs to form ours. We claim paradise.

Obscure not abstract. Responsible not guilty. Feels not knows. The crap of the titans. Your kakis will save you only amongst the masses. Kakis rule. Failure is an art and you win. Your hands are not mine, your smell is my death’s and you are every cliché I might utter and you win. And you kill me….and they bargain with you… and I fight them… and they drop you… and you sell me… and they buy you… and I die… and you win.

Do I speak? Do I do? Am I? The most powerful poem is wordless and the best wordless is a lie. The gathering of lovers is a gathering of false grammars. Grammar is the law of god and I shall dance muteness to the edge of memory. Love you I, lick you me, kills me us, there go you me for. Do I breathe?

The jelly ends are out of words, and thus they give way to verse.   

عنقود

الحياة في خضم الموت موت

تنام على موت وتستيقظ أيضا على موت ومابينهما لا حياة، القاتل والمقتول كلاهما في فعل وأنت وحدك بكوارثك العليلة المتناهية في صغر أفقك منهار كبقايا ليلة رومية العربدة

 موجود أنت لذا لا تترك خطاك أثرا، لا ينتزع صوتك صداه. موجود بين أنا وأخرى

عروج على وشم وقتي

صباحاتك الممعنة في صفرتها تنساق في مجيئها نحو نحيب المادة وعروشك الهامدة في الآلة الحاسبة نبذتها ساعات الآت فأين الدم؟

أين الدم ومقلتيك لاتزالا في وجهك؟ أين الدم وكينونتك مطبوعة في فواتيرك؟ أين الدم في استمناءك على من هجرك؟ أين الدم؟

فردوس أبدي آخر

رصاصة في عمر زهرة تستقر في فكه \تنهره في محاولته لادخال قضيبه في دبرها\لايسقط ولكن ثمة أنين يُقبِّل روح على يساره زَهُقَت\يعض لسانه صافعا مؤخرتها المتلألأة\رصاصة أخرى ماجنة تنفجر في صدره\تتندر على قوة يده وصغر قضيبه\يسقط باسما\يقذف باكيا

ظلام شامخ

لا تتحرر فيومي مليئ بالأشياء، لا تتحرر فلم أُدعى إلى حفلة الجلباب، لا تتحرر فمزاج سيدي عكر، لا تتحرر فلم أكمل ملاحظاتي بعد، لا تتحرر فربما يزيد عدد من ينيك امرأتي، لا تتحرر فدمك لا يتناسق مع لون قميصك، لا تتحرر فموسيقى الرثاء تؤثر على بشرتي، لا تتحرر فأقلع عن سخطي، لا تتحرر فلازال الليل فتيا والظلمة حالمة

بزوغ نسبي

تعلو فوق قصاصات الريح وانهمك في حليب التفاصيل                                                           

الرب شرخ

الرفيق وقت

الحالم عدَم

العذوبة ايقاع

اللون غشاء

Artificial Crisis

You wake up because you just do. Your whole life is an alternative to something or anything, it doesn't matter; you have no idea anyway. 

Questions are forces of being; however, when you stop asking, nothing really happens. You do not seize to exist, because someone, somewhere is asking. It is very simple, this whole life thing. Answers are entirely independent of the act of asking and from the act of questioning. In this sense, cheer up, put some cloths on and travel to the nearest street where the sun smiles wider than a dead man's memory.

Why be ashamed? foot fetish is wholly human, it has even a divine touch. Everybody has a fetish, even gods: creation fetish. Humility is part human "Hum-" and part divinity "-ity," and foot fetish is an act of humility; one is humbled to his true self and thus excels the usual earthly desire of "just-fucking" and rises to the most intimate to earth: Feet. They used to say that eyes are the mirror of the soul, others said that hands are, nonsense. Feet are the true mirror of the soul, for they either stink or shine.

Revolution is just Linguistics. To dream it is an "if," To be it is a "when," to talk about is an "as if," to do it is a "Question Tag," and to ruin it is a matter of Tense. You will sure narrate it through various frames. Soon you will withdraw as a narrator and it will narrate itself with a double-edged discourse: an absent narratee and an omitted addressee.

The Who and The Why

In between runs an ivory blood

pieces and bits 

a violet killing

a purple kiss.

The You within and The You without

are mirror's mirrors

are armies of sand.

Glowing bridge....Cut.....Crystal ball.....Cut......Pious rape.....Cut....Thorny smile.....Dissolve.....Aqua-dance....Fade out....Bloody credits.