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

Stranger: Being There

My hand reached inside her marble eyes, aiming for the darkness, for the perfect disarray, and by the Gods it felt like home, as if I could unchain the demons locked in their denizens to join me in a lengthy game of cards, as if this crumbling dystopia was all there is and all that will ever be, willingly, by choice and only by choice.

But I couldn’t linger any longer for she had forced me to see her outside of the realm of thought. Her eyes, they bled droplets of sanguine wine, funeral wine, ever sweet ad ever morose, her lips opened slightly, shyly as if to welcome the swift embrace of salvation, of absolution and her hair was restrained, proud, a warning sign for an invasion that ceased existing.

And there she laid on the cold hard floor, still she was for seconds turned into hours turned into days. Everything moved in all directions yet everything was perfectly still. An incarnation of the saintly lechery, she was, a melody of the sinner’s virtue and of the sheer beauty of the incomprehensible grey area.

Vigorously, she defended her addiction to the void, her uncomfortable comfort zone, against all attempts to carry some of the sins, some of the fiends inside her head.        I wished I’d become a helping hand,

I wished I could drink at the funeral,

I wished I’d tamed her hair..

But I was not there…

“I am, simply, never there”

Mendacious circumlocution – Part V

The right time and the right place, two vague concepts which I was never properly introduced to, as opposed to the more familiar area of the wrong timing and the wrong spacial placement. I guess one descends from the former to either a. Apologizing to one’s self, b. Resenting one’s self or c. Embracing the idea that some are destined for greatness and some are meant to wallow the missed chances. Honestly speaking, yours true is wired to miraculously exercise the alphabet of options in the same exact moment in time. Kindly suppress your bafflement.

Applying the Palahniuk methodology in his masterpiece ‘Invisible Monsters’, jump with me to a cheap hotel in the desert during one of Egypt’s fiery summers. There she was in her absolutely stunning lack of glamour and social experience and there I was, all in hidden awe, wearing the mask of benign social interaction, asking questions I have the answers to, throwing jokes I profoundly find tasteless and avoiding the want and/or need to mentally and physically ravage the core of her being, or..well, her lady parts. In short, even though I was at the theoretical ‘right time and place’, I failed to recognize it and passed the opportunity for awaited bliss, or…well, I was a lady part.

Jump back to the present, after events of certain social significance, I am afflicted by sudden melancholic nostalgia but guess what?…No..No..You have to guess! The wrong time and the wrong place! Ding Ding Ding..We have a winner..or a loser..doesn’t matter.

To put a simple ending to a rather elaborate beginning, I could share this with no one specific, henceforth I write. There is no happy ending, there are obviously no lady parts but there seems to be an overabundance of mendacious circumlocution.

Dive.Descend.The end.

Sinful Times: II – Headache

Mind and Soul wreckage,

Expected failure nearing,

I Offer myself,

a worthy sacrifice,

in spite of my lack of taste,

through my lack of insight.

Perpetual journey

through time and space,

a river of sand and snow.

You have to live before

you die young

I Run ,

I fled ,

I flew,

to ease the hunger,

to quench the thirst,

thirst for unknown,

thirst for the sin at hand,

forbidden.

Dead alone,

no friends,

no home,

no strings attached ,

mentality unmatched.

 

Darkness reigns,

dominates,

faithful servant in me,

evil’s heir apparent.

Sparkling eyes,

filled with sanguine tears,

so bright,

in flames,

spouting rage and fury.

In despair I trust,

disperse the must,

among the bunch.

Conquer my foes,

who can’t survive without I,

I keep close those who loathe me,

impeccable logic.

“keep your friends close

and your enemies in pieces”

I love pieces,

so calm,

so quiet,

until they gather,

to form a body or a head.

 

Hate….Hate….such a big word,

suits them perfectly,

fits them like a sock,

those in my head,

are called thoughts,

I call them hell-hounds.

“I wanna do bad things 

to you…”

…..for they are unhappy,

for I am wretched.

Strange world,

strange trip.

Side tracked to past desire,

past grief,

ever so brief,

ever so pitiful.

Nostalgia is annoying,

rises from the ashes,

of pain so familiar.

This hurt seems close to my chest.

It does not hurt anymore

The demon resides in my head,

waiting for the perfect moment to shriek hellos,

to embed fear into my reasoning,

to haunt my awakening,

to whisper nightmares,

false accusations.

Dim future ahead

Fasten your seat-belts ,

emotional turbulence,

physical inconsistency

bloodlust,

battlethirst.

where was I?

continuity an option.

or is it?

it hurts again..

 

Wants

Your pen slipped to convey that life is too short for us to avoid sinning or to differentiate between what is held as sin and what is considered a revered virtue. I was intensely immersed in the beautifully drawn moment that I forgot my reality, I forgot to take a peak at your soul and whisper that my short life is nearing its demise, that my soul is weakened and my mind is troubled. I do not want to want anymore, or rather, I want to stop the sins of my past from bonding with the demons in my head to halt my wanting. Can you see the evidence of the conflict and the confusion dominating my thought process in the former?

Moreover, you do not want me, you want my listening ear and my comforting logic, you want my belief in your beauty, that you’re not as complex and as misunderstood as you keep voicing countless times to countless other ‘Humans’. I understand that, I embrace that but it is a curse in disguise; wanting the want that never admitted not wanting.

All in all, I am sorry, I am sorry that my spoken words failed to convey the above, but I know you will understand, understand that I am not perfect, that I am not even average, understand that I am just an old, demented man, a sinner who is conscious of his sins with a subconscious that torments him yet scarcely prevents him.

PS: You are an incarnation of beauty.

فكر الآثمين

آثم اذ تفكّرت؟
آثم اذ تكابرت فتبخترت؟
اآثم أنا ام أنا الإثم؟
اأعلو من مقام انسيٍّ لمقام فِكرة؟
فِكرة سادت لفترة؟

كم اعشقُ الارتقاء
بعيدًا عن الدنيا
قريبًا إلى السماء
بالدعوةِ
ام  بالدعاء؟
أم  بالمحبةِ
أم  بالتأملِ فالفضاء؟
امطلبي العشق؟
ام مطلبي الهوى؟
ام هو هي؟

افتيتُ بلا أعلم
فالعلمُ عند الله
ام هو في الكتب؟
ام هو في الرحلةِ؟
ام هو في الرتب؟

لا أعلم
فلست فقيهًا بالدين
ولا عالمًا بالدنيا
ولا ذاكرًا لماضٍ
ولا حالمًا بغدٍ

ما أنا إلا فكرة مخيّرة
تثور بعالم مسيّر
تتفاخرُ ببعدها
عن الصراط والانضباط
فكرة قاصرة
تريد حبَ من لم يحب
تريد دينًا للفاسقين
ودنيا للمؤمنين
فكرة بالية

لا تعرف النوم
لا تُعجِب القوم
وتحمِل اللوم
فكرة آثمة
تفكّرت
فتكابرت
فتبخترت
فسَألت عن اثمها
وليتها ماسألت

الغريب: ماضيكي و حاضري

أراكِي في ظلماتِك تضحكين
وفي الحاضرِ تتألمين فتتسامرين
وبالإيمانِ لا تؤمنين
وعلى مستقبلٍ تتحسرين
فالصدر مثقلٌ بنظراتهم
والنظرُ مكسورٌ بأقنعتهم
والأبُ رَبْ
والقلبُ كلب
يلهث خلف سراب لا ينتهي
ومن الطلب لا يرتوي
ومن الدعاءِ لن يستحي
فقضبانِ المحبس أحاسيس
واحساسُ الفرحِ دسيس
والكلبُ في عينِ ربِ البيت خسيس
فدَعيني وادْعِني
و ضعّي ماضيكي وسامًا من عينّيك لصدركِ
و دَعي رب بيتك لقفصٍ خاوٍي
و دَعي ماضيك بين يدي حاضرٍغاوي.
فأنا لستُ بربٍ ولا أب
ولا أنا بماضٍ يتكرر
و لا أضحوكةٍ تتبخّر
أنا حاضرٌ باسط ذراعيه
يأتيك هرولة
فدَعيني وادْعِني

الغريب: دعاءُ الفقير

كَتبتُ و لم تملأ كلماتي السطور

فالناس إن قرأت، صرخت حدَ الفجور

فقلبي ملوّحٌ بالهوى كمن رأى نورًا على نور

والعشق في صدري على وجهي مذكورٌ، منشور

وعند التقاءِ عيني بعينها مكسور

فأنا الفاسقُ وهي طلبي بالمغفرة

و أنا العاري و هي بالحريرِ مدثرة

فرحمتكَ يا ربي بعبدِك

طالبًا لرَوحٍ من رَوحِك

فأنت الكريم إذ الفقير عن الدعاء التهى

وما أنا إلا فقيرًا من الطلب إلتوى

فقيرًا بدينك، غنيًا بدنياك

ومن ملبيًا لدعائي إياك

فهي مراد النفسِ و النفسُ خاويةٌ على عروشها

وهي غاية الروحِ و الروحُ هائمةٌ على وجهها

وهي في حصونِ قلبي، محصنٌ قلبها

وقلب عبدِك محمومٌ، مهمومٌ بها

هي وحدها

Faceless by Victor Bezrukov

Stranger: Her face on the empty pages

And there she was in front of me, as sudden as the former sentence was written, she is the incarnation of beauty, mesmerized, I stare into the blackness of her hair resting on the magnificent thrones of her shoulders, soothing as the smooth summer breeze kissing the foreheads of weary humans going about their troublesome daily lives. Her eyes are priceless pearls worth fighting for among pirates and commanders of fleets, shining bright for the unfortunate soul of mine like a treasure long lost and finally found, salvation to the sinner I, the healing to the plagued I and a destination to the wandering I. Her figure is poetry to the aspiring poet in me inspiring words I had no previous knowledge of, a vision for artistic creations of old and a dark spell I remain under.

I walk the plain streets every morning, wander in prolonged routes with childish hope I would see her passing by, longing for a moment in time where I would ultimately find anything to spew instead of writing this nonsensical piece in the empty pages that call her name and depict her face, all in vain, all in worthlessness.

I had vowed not so long ago that she would be the savior of what I perceive as my dark future, but with time passing swiftly through my senses like a sharpened blade and with all that is logical standing against my wanting, my vow appears fleeting, feeble, like the murmuring of the gravely wounded promising to slay their murderers, like the drunken rambling of the poor aiming for sudden wealth, but the dying will meet their maker before their vengeance, the drunken will pour more wine, the poor will get poorer with foolish hopes of riches and my thirst will never be quenched.

I will remain watching, wanting, yearning, longing, mourning what will never be and writing about worlds I may never perceive for my curse is wishing and rarely do wishes come true.

Yours hopeful,

Zeus