The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.

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On Suicide: Choo Choo



I don’t get what the fuss is all about.

I mean, You add the act to the a masterclass of dramatic music and a morose backstory et Voila: another Shakespearean tragedy collecting dust in the dungeons of many a memory castle until its biblical ashen oblivion. Pathetic.

On the other side of the faceless coin, I stripped suicide from its fineries, its theatrics and its orchestra and accepted its nakedness for what it’s not; it is not my cowardice nor my bravery, it is not my well deserved catharsis and it most definitely is not my long awaited salvation.

Why then?

The meds? The Colours? The depression and attention deficit? The 9 to 5. The highway drive. The bus. The rent. You, him, they, us. I could tell you that it is any or all of the above but it’d be a lie.

It is just me. Aye.


I, I, I adore and condemn I, insecure and lost I, Grey I.

I am just bored, you see.

Deadeyed and hardened by the consequences of conscious colourlessness, I survive.

Yet I am not chewing at my broken nails nor laying on the cold floor in a puddle of my own making.

I am just done, you see. The self conscious, self righteous and self obsessed I has reached the final destination of the fear and loathing train going: Choo fucking Choo.





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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