The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.

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Red II

I see you
dressed in black
carrying red
atop your head.

I see you
passing through
wearing blue
when blue
never suited you.

I see you
Heeding the call
the unmasking
the fall
seeing me
A grey
sad as it may

I want to write you
tell you I’m restless
tell you I’m sorry
to come to me
undress to undo me
lay beside me
and dream of colours
Inside of me
but unfortunately
You are me.

I see you
stars above
rain lust on me
and look at me
as I consume you
get high off of you
bite your thighs
and wrap fingers
around your neck
abuse you
if it please you

O’Stars above
dressed in black
carrying red
I see you.

Your idiot.


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Flowers should not grow

In the chest of a crow

The realm of ice and snow

Where dragons died

And children cried

Where Gods bled

And the dying fled

The lives they’ve led.


Flowers should not grow

Though I’m glad they do

For I love broken things

And breaking things anew

Do you?

Beautiful view askew

I wish I flew

Alongside the heart I slew

Above the earth

The pain it brings

the stench that stings

But I do not.


I do not

So I’ll keep my silence

Avert my eyes

Reveal the truth

Beneath frail disguise

Crave what’s between her thighs

Of love, lust and sweet demise

As she sips the wine

And pours me sighs

For in me

Flowers should not grow



The end.


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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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