The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.

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The Flaky Derelict – Part I


Numéro Un

I don’t know how to write anymore.

I don’t write anymore?

I don’t know.

I don’t.

“Creative Writing” is what it’s called, one the courses I’m taking to hopelessly prove to myself I’m not hopeless in spite of everything suggesting that I am: my inability to write but four incoherent sentences about being unable to write, my social anxiety creeping up on me as I attempt seemingly simple conversations and my hungry wallet reminding me that we’re equal in emptiness.

“I want you to take one item from this bag, without looking” Mr. Tucker

“You should’ve replaced that” Fair lass who can stand the sight of me

Minutes, hours and days passed and I am still fixated on one question, singular: Why is the blue monstrosity laughing at me? I know to a certain degree of certainty that my psychosis hasn’t reached the hallucinatory state yet but the three headed chicken was laughing at me. It knew why I tore up my previous pathetic excuse for a poem, it learnt that I am incapable of writing and it smelled the fear oozing out of me. I was defeated by a blue egg pouch. Fun times ahead.


Numéro Deux

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

Damned tourists

It’s Egg-Pouch-Man

My psychiatrist is referring me to someone else. I told her about the conversations in my head with the other I’s and how the egg pouch is to blame for the increased thoughts of suicide.

I still blame the blue monstrosity. With every attempt to release any piece of writing from the gray matter and wrinkles of my brain, the bird sweeps down, steals my words from between my fingers and laughs at me. I wish I was an egg pouch. I would sit around all days and nights in my smooth blue garments, I would taunt students with the true purposelessness of my two spare heads, I would smirk when I’m chosen by failed writers and I would offend the roosters and hens of the world by kidnapping their unborn children and presenting them gladly to my masters.

I wish I was an egg pouch.


Numéro Trois

Sangre por sangre!

Eye for an eye!

Yolk for yolk!


“Sir, you can’t be here. This is a crime scene.”

“I can see the yellow tape, son. Now move aside”

“It’s okay, James, he’s with me”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir”

“Where do you find these kids? It’s like an infestation of teenagers in here. I loathe teenagers”

“Loathe is a big word, Ed. Plus we shouldn’t all be relics to do good police work”

“Good Police Work…eh? Anyway, where is the body?”

“It’s in the living room, but I don’t think you should see it, it’s pretty darn gruesome”

“I’ve been to two wars, Jimmy, I doubt that it’s any different”

“Suit yourself.”

It’s not the body, it’s not the blood and certainly not the fatal injury, it’s always the smell. Death reeked differently today.

“What are these yellow circles on the wall?”

“We’re sending samples to the lab but…”

“But what?”

“well, sir, it smells like yolk, I don’t know why but the perpetrator has smeared what looks like yolk on the walls, sir, and it’s rather fitting considering the egg pouch”

“Where is it? The pouch?”

“It’s in the kitchen sir, with the murder wea…”

“STOP.  Just Stop. Where are you going with this?” Yelled the blue monstrosity.

I don’t know where I’m going but at least I’m writing.

Blood for yolk…


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III – Lust is Red

My body aches every single god forsaken morning though the bite marks you honoured my chest with are long gone. Through the foggy mirror, the unfamiliar face staring back smiles cheekily. I remember everything; the sanguine wine, the dusty rooftop and my disregarded sense of morality.

Under the veils, you shriveled, yet your naked body standing erect brought terror to my skin; your seamless flowing red resting atop your shoulders, your plumb succulent breasts shying away in rosiness and your perfectly shaped potbelly  yearning for my fingertips; you, melady, were a vision to behold.

I had long longed for carefully orchestrated madness, for drunken consciousness, for lechery but  every step you drew towards me struck dismay in my heart, one of a pebble flung in still waters dreading the ruination of a perfect form. I was unmasked, utterly undone. You did not need a helping hand nor did you need saving, you sought destruction and I was rampage incarnate.

I got on my hands and knees and bit away at your thighs for they were worship worthy. I could even taste your lurking demonology, tucked away, alive, well. I pressed and pierced my teeth harshly into your tender flesh to feel the pulsing of your quivering. I followed with softly planted kisses to both insincerely apologize for harm done and to warn of more savagery to come. For a time I was your nakedness, I was your pain and I was your darkness, for a time, I was within you.

Flashes. My body aches, my smirk fades and memory remains. Nothing starts again.



The end.


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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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