The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.

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Death Is Red


I’d always thought I’d be around to witness the death of everything and everyone, mine with intrigue, but I hardly ever imagined that my demise would be a woman. A beautifully designed one at that.

I’ve known the foreign beauty for quite some years now, yet I was never keen on identifying with her nor had any intent on showing her my true colours, not because of my lack of eloquence nor because I secretly coveted her with inexplicable zeal but rather because she was a ‘Grey’. Greys are true to their colourlessness; Nothing and everything, all in a carefully orchestrated chaos that they’ve created alongside a legion of masks and facades to hide whatever darkness lies within. On most occasions she would wear this pink array of carelessness and false wisdom, admittedly it worked for her but I am in a very pretentious and destructive phase of my life. 


And I love the word ‘But’… it stops, it interrupts…


I was high. A funny fact about drugs/alcohol and I is that they allow moi, yours true, to be who I carefully hide as well as think aloud like a twat; They reveal me to ‘Them’.

Unmasked, I asked her in whispers:  

Who are you?

If someone asks, rather, if I asked, what would be your answer?

And before I could retract the question that sounded rather pointless, she swiftly pierced me with a calm, collected and genuine answer:

I am death.

I leave and all ends.

It is what it is.

I was lying in bed yet my knees gave out, my heart excitedly skipped around my chest and I kissed her. The last part did not actually happen but in my world I was salvaged by the image. 

Most men long to meet their maker and ultimately give up their demons, I offered mine in submission in return for  some of hers. Fair Trade. The girl who was death had finally come for me and I’d always imagined the death of everything and everyone. She is Red.


Artwork by : Yasmine Al Adawy


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الهفلطة الوجودية – II – سمسون

-          “It’s been so long since I said I loved you….”

“Sweet child of…”

“Babe, babe, babe, mbaby, I don’t wanna …….”

-          “مش ناوي تظبط يامتني؟”

-          “احا؟ إنت إيه مشكلةاللي خلفوك؟”

-          عَمَّال بتتموحن بقالك قرن ومخلي شكلنا , أوشكلك يعني, عرص بعيدعنك . إنت محتاج تخرس“

-          “وإنت مال دين أمك؟ عيل خريان, إيه رأيك تخرس إنت وتسيب دين أمي في حاله؟

-          “وانا مالي؟ إنت فعلا بتسأل السؤال المعاق ذهنيا ده؟ مالي يا ابن المرة إنك بتجيب لنفسك , أوحضرتي , الخرى. وانا الصراحة مش ناقص بضان”

-          “وإنت إيه لازمتك في الدنيا لومش شيال خرى؟ أكيد معملتكش عشان تبضن عليا . بس. يا تشيل يا يا تقفل كس أم بؤك”

-          “لوكان فيك ذرة ذكاء كنت سمعت اللي بقوله مش في الكلمات اللي طالعة من بوئي. يامزري كل ما حترمي قرفك كل ماهنيكك في دماغك . اظبط. ولا سام حتظهر ولا لينا هتعرف تشوفها تاني  , ولااهلك هيتغيروا, ولوشربت هتسكر , ولونطيت من غير توبس هتنيك نفسك وهتنيك شخص تاني معاك . اظبط . اطلع بره التخيلات الوهمية اللي إنت عايش في كس أمها . ديه الحياة الحقيقية, مبتديش فرص تانية لواحد متني. اظبط”

-          “…..احا”

-          “بالظبط.”

-          “طب….ميوزيك؟”

-          “قشطة بس بلاش كآبة. أنا خربان نيك وإنت فصلتني”

-          “Sweet Smoke?”

-          “نيييييك”


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To Scotland III

The following never happened.

“Hey There, pretty little girl”, take my hand when you descend and watch me unfurl, for I had no right to adore you yet I foolishly twist and twirl.

See, I do not belong here, not on this land, nor among the living but for a moment in time, I slipped from the clutches of my demons, fell into your eyes, found religion on the arching of your lips and by the Godless skies I prayed and with your waist line I swayed to be ultimately born again, anew.

Alas, it was what it was, a mere moment in time. I rose midway through my unrealistic waking dream, only to realize you’re not there, that you were never there and that all there was left was my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror and I. So I wrote this abomination in your honour as both an apology and a vow.

I am sorry I burdened you with my fiends when you had flown yours alongside you across the narrow sea. I am sorry I am who I am, a facade of a man encircling a lifelong death wish and I am supremely apologetic for what you’re probably not going to read.

Yet I still write, pathetically at that, but I do. It is what keeps me insane enough to feel while delaying my long awaited end. I will always try to find you, not to bind you but to silently bury my face in your arms, within you.

Yours true,

The idiot


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To Scotland II


Even the crone does not know

You do

You have been here before

You have seen what you

Can do to you

Honour you

Or humble you


Even the crone does not know

He tries though

Sluggish and slow

He tries though

Because he wants to

Religious through and through

For deities abandon the faithful

Yet faith remains




So whether you try to recreate

Or Undo

He adores you

Because fuck it, fuck him and fuck you.

Yours true,



Shara Hughes – You Are Me and Your Are Me Too, 2011
Oil, acrylic, enamel, spraypaint on canvas 58 x 56 inches

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To Scotland I


it doesn’t have to make sense,

it doesn’t have to be logical,

it is what it is.

You are a stranger

as you are strange,

everything I want to see,

albeit can’t,

the life I do not breathe,

the freedom of my fantasies,

and a lonesome summer breeze.

I want to kiss you,

not because I love you,

nor because I am lusting for you.

but because I want to press my cigarette mauled lips against you

then I would pause to look at you

with wonder in your brown eyes

and maybe then I’d kiss them too,

simply because I want to.


I wish I would speak the words instead,

but they won’t let me,

friends in my head,

but at least this is I, writing

or I think it is.

one of them really likes this piece,

another despises it,

a third thinks I’m an idiot

and a fourth claims I’m a teenager romance whore.

So I will not speak of affection

of which I know little

nor dwell on lust

of which I have abundance.

I just want to kiss you,

maybe comfort you,

and feel like a twat, writing this to you.

I wonder,

how people will read this,

the very few that do

make me self conscious

self restricting

but it does not matter

nothing has to;

these ramblings

this body

my face

your faith

your awkward laughter

or your misunderstanding of this

all is hell, all is bliss

all will go to shit

simply because I want to want to.


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الهفلطة الوجودية – I – سلف بضان

- “بص, أنا بعتقد إن تجاربي اللي فاتت أو ممكن نقول ‘اختياراتي’ هي اللي وصلتني للمرحلة  الحياتية الجاحدة اللي أنا فيها. أنا دلوقتي في سلام داخلي تام مع فكرة إني هفضل مجرد رقم, لا شيء. أنا عبد اختياراتي. وبرده لقيت إن من المنطقي إن لو في ناس مبسوطة وكويسة يبقى أكيد في ناس هتفضل حزينة ومبضونة وليها تأثير سلبي على المحيطين بيهم…وأنا…”

- “واحد من الناس ديه؟”

- “ماهو …آه؟”

- *ضحك هستيري نيك*

- “في حاجة بقولها تخليك تضحك الضحكة بنت المتناكة ده؟ عيل شرموطة”

- “مبدئيا , ‘ ضياء’  هو الشرموطة. ثانيا, انت ليه مهتم بـرأيي أصلا؟ عايزني اقولك إنك جامد فشخ وصح فشخ وبتاع؟ إنت عارف إني متبرمج إني اعترض يعني . وبعدين إيه اللغة البرجوازية الوسخة اللي بتتكلم بيها ديه؟ “المرحلة الحياتية” ديه تبقى خالتك. إنت زهقان نيك وبتحور على نفسك يا جامد. بس.”

- “نفترض إنك صح, إنت مش زهقان يا خريان إنت كمان؟”

- “احا, أنا زهقان نيك نيك نيك نيك نيك , يمكن زهقان أكتر منك عشان محبوس هنا, بس على الاقل مش عَمَّال بعيط زي سعادتك”

- “اديك. إيه اللي يديك الحق إنك تحكم على أي حاجة بقولها أصلا ؟ عَمَّال تضحك وتبضن عليا و”نيك نيك نيك نيك” اللي ‘زياد’  خلَّى ‘نود’ نفسه يبطلها…بفففف…..أنا اللي عملتك أصلا, أنا اللي اقرر أنا حاسس بإيه و مش حاسس بإيه , من غيري مكنتش هتبقى موجود”

- ” يا راجل؟ مين قال لك إن الموضوع مش معكوس؟ يعني … فَكر فيها … ممكن أكون أنا خلقتك عشان اصلح حاجة غلط فيا … سواء عدم الإحساس اللي عندي أو إني مبعرفش إزّاي أتعامل مع كس أم الناس…وإنت عجبك الموضوع وقعدت يا مستر احاسيس إنت”

- “كس أمك…أنا ليه بتكلم معاك أصلا؟”

- “كس أمك هو كس أمي وبعدين باصي وانا اسيبك في حالك”

- “إيه شغل  ‘عزايم’  ده؟”

- “باصي وإنت ساكت مش إنت عبرت عن نفسك وبتاع؟ اتنيل باصي “

- “ولاعة؟”

- “معايا”

- “بيو بيو”

- “اكبر”


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SInful Times IX – Dreamland [Original Drunk Version]

And within us, a dream lies, short lived


We live

We die


Above illusions aplenty

No mercy for the absentee

We live

We die

So worship the tie

And kill the truth



She may never be

Nor may I

For I am the sinner

Who preached

And she is the saint

Who breached


She cried

And believed herself

Love on a silver platter

A social experiment

Of delusional sentiment

Towards the subject, I

The distant, I



And then lie some more

Then Roar,


And resent




You’re okay

You’re fine


What is

Into what will not

In your bed

Blow your head

Bleed led

Spell the end

We live

We dive




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Sinful Times VIII: Dreamland

Within us, lies a dream, short lived.

This is the end,my friend adrift.

Painless in descent, swift.

It’ll be over soon, my derelict

Twin souls, split

Yours, never did exist

to hell, will you submit

waking life shall not persist

for it is a dream, short lived

Farewell, pretentious harmony

and false dependency

and masquerade’s mastery

Slowly but surely

to the precipice, consciously

To die, faithfully and live, eternally

from whence you came, originally

you shall remain, begrudgingly








Life and death, man and woman by Cherine El-Halfawy


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الغريب : قيام الليل


صليت تجاه قبلتكي


وقبلت بعرش مجنونك

فانت من عشقت , وحدك

وتسلقت القلاع لأجلك

فقير نظر السماء لترقصي

عار سكن الشفاه ليأتوي

شيطان هداه هواه لترفضي


اتاكي الحب متبخترا

حاملا رسالتي

فتمزقين حشاشتي

وتلومين حزنك

فاتبسم لتضحكي

وتكملين رقصك


صليت تجاه قبلتك

ودعوت الاله لتقبلي

وكتبت في الليالي

رثاء من ظننت ليلتي


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Mendacious Circumlocution – Part IX

Why can’t I see what awaits me?

The future seems like a magnificent illusion, after all, if I had learnt anything of value from my self proclaimed dim past, it would be that nothing works according to a plan that was constructed with an ever-evolving mentality and an ever-changing perspective.

See, every time we cross paths with humans, who naturally possess alien mentalities, even to the smallest extent, and different views on existence, we leech a part of their experience and knowledge and exchange it for a part of our own.

Henceforth, whatever plan we assume that we’ve skillfully created to guide our so-called “unique” roads, it will all perish in ashen oblivion every time we meet an individual or meet an idea or even meet ourselves midst a random episode of self reflection.

Building on the former I ask a completely different question;

Why do I still wonder why?

I have no present, educated idea, not a single one but I guess I’ll learn the reasoning soon enough…



Classless Pass…

Dive…Descend…The end..



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