To Scotland I

See,

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.

see,

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.

Mendacious Circumlocution – Part XII

I have not written in quite a whole, which is both worrying and intriguing. I tend to get concerned by these periods of ink drought for writing has been my saviour when I wasn’t saving myself and my ability with the pencils has always been a doubt.

I fear that my personal development – however minute – and my self reflection are making me more human.

I do not write because I’ve found the soul-well where I can allow myself to confess my sins and be blessed. I do not write because I’m afraid of the re-emergence of my demons – aptly named ‘Lord Ass’ and ‘Princess misjudgment’. My creations long for annihilation. I do not write when I’m not morose and by the heavens, I appreciate the emotional break.

Unfortunately, the break is nearing its abrupt ending. The well is regrettably tainted by past sinners and demons and she years to rid herself from mine.

So I write, completely oblivious of what will follow next or rather, of what will come sooner; The wrath of the maiden or the triumph of fiends or even my long awaited rise post the chosen free-fall.

I am writing. I wrote. Inhuman.

I bare the curse of driving the hearse.

Dive.

Descend.

The end.

 

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.

From Z to G – I – Apologies

Dear G,

I hope this virtual letter finds you in the best mental health,

أما بعد

Why?

Simply because I’ve found no other means I can use to better convey what I have to and want to convey, I am slightly limited when it comes to maintaining a proper conversation and your “anti-household” defense mechanism is always, or rather, often up and running.

Here goes nothing;

I am desperately sorry for the current familial predicament, I am sorry for the distant connection we have, I admit, after years of denial, was my fault. I know I am unable to compensate years of my continuous nonsense, I know I was never the big brother figure nor any excuse for a typical role model like we were taught when we were pups, but I need you, as much as it may sound surreal or melancholic, I do.

It’s quite a lonely life I lead, mate, I am alone at home, at work and in my head but I’ve always had you in my sights, what a farce! I know… my actions never depicted the former.

This feeble attempt is not going to be the end of such attempts, but one day I’ll be saying the words instead of poorly translating them on paper, all in dysphoria.

Be well, you’re a good man and we’ll talk, relatively soon…relatively.

Yours,

Z.

Mendacious Circumlocution : Part III

Should I write about love?

Should I write about lust and the worship of the bodies?

Should I write about the future?

Or maybe about the loss of the past?

I do not know.

The fading spirit of mine prevents me from this seemingly easy choice,

The weather is bland, the colours are pale, the minds are at their spiritual high, the men are raging,the women are entertainment and the heavy pencil strokes on the empty spaces are calling for my expected demise.

I decide each night to leave the former to later times, better times, but those times never do come, I dream of expressing the want of defiling something beautiful and then fade swiftly into nothingness.

As I ponder these fleeting thoughts, a melody accompanied by a song invade my brain;

The war-cries of our tribes

will ease us through the storm,

and the long sighs of our lies

is proof that we were born,

and sins of mortal lives

will see the truth be torn.

We sing from dusk till dawn

the songs of ice and stone,

the lion sings aloud

and the pup remains alone.

Dance in rings of fire,

for sins you must atone,

and drink the wine of Eden,

for the drunken mounts the throne.

There was never a point, nor will there ever be.

Yours dreadfully,

Zeus

 

 

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

Empty Vessel

I do not know what to write anymore,

words are seeping

from my heart

to my pen,

to the floor

as I recall the man I once was before,

when I wrote of peace and children of war,

I wrote of sins and priests,

I wrote of men and beasts,

I wrote of silence among the crowds,

I wrote of stars among the clouds,

I wrote of death and the healing,

I wrote of the faithless and the believing,

I wrote in vain,

I wrote in pain,

and in the mosques I prayed

and from the wine I swayed

and in the coldness stayed

and in the darkness laid,

for I had wished for things,

for I had cared for bonds,

for I had longed for her,

but now,

no more.

Words are seeping

from my heart

to my pen

to the floor.

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

Stranger: Dance of the benign, insane

It begins with wanting, usually we tend to want one of two things: Something that we do not possess, rather a “want” out of our simple, naive and mortal reach, or more of the sweet, eternal same, more of want we’ve already embraced.

Applying the previous theory on the state of yours faithful, a paradoxical concept rises from the ashes of your spotless minds: both options are valid and match the description of our mysterious lady friend, she is the incarnation of what I long for in the materialistic sense and she is the embodiment of the theoretical, theatrical and thorough spiritual enticement.

Alongside the former, her familiar existence and her lack of needless masks that depict false facades is comforting, as if I’d seen her in the darkest of my ages in an old, beautifully melancholic coincidence.

I have always assumed I’m naturally equipped for analyzing humans but my perception draws blanks or mere false conclusions when it comes to her revered presence.

The  path seems long, troublesome and full of terrors and I remain quite at ease despite me feeling quite insane for writing this heresy and these hallucinations about this borderline mythical persona, using my intuition rather than my logic.

God have mercy on the feeble I.

Simply yours,

Zeus

Artwork by Cherine El-Halfawy

Stranger: The beginning

And there she was, lying next to me, awestricken and devoid of all masks and facades, and by the Gods it was a sight for the sore, bored eyes of mine. Times like these are thoroughly scarce in quantity yet intensely and beautifully rich in quality wherein time itself seems meaningless.

I would rust during the wait for her to reveal where her mind wanders, gloomy and simultaneously content, she seemed when she rested her eyes and leaned against the walls of thought and consciousness. I continued to write, hapless, helpless and very much intrigued by this alien presence that felt unrealistically familiar.

I was probably just imagining or mistaken, I tend to dramatize and complicate simple incidents to make them something I could write about, but a small part of me wishes it was as real and tangible as the words depict.

I will lay now in the comfort of my bed, with fingers crossed, with a wandering mind and with hope for better times ahead, times where my imagination isn’t that far from the truth.

Goodnight and Goodbye..

For now.

Yours explicitly,

Zeus

Artwork by Russ Mills