it's funny that
I can only remember
bad times through another one

that just got its way
to sour me up
whenever I stare blankly
at something while thinking
of numerous ways
on how to solve it

knowing that nothing
could ever be done
to it,

nothing but the sense
of worrying relentlessly

because it's
the most sensible and feasible

way to approach problems
known to man.


I am to believe that
it's a reminder

from my own old system,
telling me I'll live through it
just like the other ones

and will remember
it in the future,

when another one
arises.

I was young.
I could walk for miles without getting tired.
My thoughts could send me flying elsewhere.
I can put holes through a wall with a single punch.
I can control others' minds and make them act silly.
There were no clocks in my head!
I can compete with fast gods or go toe to toe with
stronger enemies.
All those possibilities. . .
and none of these.

It's not a mystery to me that I keep
having this fantasy to be young again,
rewind, nothing in mind;
not a single thing to be reminded of.
of any specific steps to take in order to make it;
all nothing but pure grandiose on the spot.

no ******* critics to tell you their boring bigotry
because for ****'s sake,
all the sake's for our innocent poetry.

rhyming is allowed, spacing and misspelling,
no viewers, awkward, anxious...cringey.
you name it!
these things basically, if not, partly make
our youth meaningful.
deprived of all the terrors of the world
and what people say.

If given a chance to relive them all
I'd do better
but maybe,
I am just helplessly
drifting away again
in this coping mechanism.

god if this is a theatre,
splash an epic ending for me
before you close the curtains.

I am drunk
and I have work tomorrow
just like everybody else.
Don't feel sorry.
I did this to myself.
I was careless.

Now, I am going to sleep.

our romance began when nobody
wanted to start one
i remember it like it was a while ago
on a day when the leaves were yellow
and the times suggested
parks that are far away from the road.

my heart felt something
and it remembers
in a quite unfamiliar sense.

it is just like the first time in a long time to
witness the sunrise again in this dull life
the wind blew. . .
and changed its direction

i followed it and i knew it’s
that time again.

there was no way to tell
if it was the same before
but to splash my frail body in there
for a leap of faith

but i was sure though seemingly different,
i convinced myself
it was going to be all worth it.
and when it was about to happen,
i didn’t give admission to my doubts.

as

i played the bull
on a rampage
to be killed
for its desire.

it made me forget the pain of
the thousand scrapes and wounds
of trust
i succumbed into
for what seemed
like many years
and you were there,
                  
                   you
        
       came;

you
      
      found
                  
                 me.

this uneasy feeling eats me whole state of being
i can’t even hold a ******* book straight
can’t think straight
can’t have a ******* cigarette
can’t even get help
not gonna ask for any anyway
it seems that it’s this way of living,
the one that no matter how long its
presence has been around, you never get used to it
you just hide, shaking in fear or anxiety
or whoever the **** knows what
only thing that i know is
losing the point in all of this tonight,
a coward of the dusk
a brave ******* in the dawn
and these ******* people
just keeps getting in my way.

The fan has collected
its share of dust.
The curtains that has been waving
from the wind seemed
to have stop.
The basket is filled
with ***** clothes
of a week and a half.
The pack of cigarettes I bought
three days ago is now hollow empty.
The ***** plates on the
kitchen sink
will serve as a refuge for the
cockroaches tonight.
The food I ate a couple of
hours ago is gone to *****.
And here comes the 'line'
that should punch the readers
for whatever reason it is
they are reading this:
I am a poet, not an
entertainer.

eyelids, as thin fold
of skin against the rain,
the consequence
the posibility
I shove this progress,
making space and making time.
I just want to lose
all this will energy just
so they admit me
to a hospital break
and I want to fake
everything. . .
God why can't you
make all this easy
for me?

and to my Mom
who seemed to
forgot what
living is supposed to
be,
you're dragging me
in the same ending,
I hope she knows.

and to my real Father
who never figured
things out,
I'm happy that
I got your ideals and
that you get me in my
current situation.

how many remaining days
are there before I lose
all this and become
a shadow
of what I used to be?
I wasn't great, never better
but around these days
I don't feel much
and as I am writing
this pitiful poem
I can feel the urge in my
hands to break something
in order to let
everyone know that something
is wrong but no,
people never know
I have been fooled of
this fantasy so many times
that it made me
burn bridges, including
long ones.

losing sleep,
restless I come at it again,
I'll force my way
all throughout the day,
earn the money
while I slowly turn
into stone,
losing myself
and drifting away,
****, I am drifting away. .

tomorrow
another blank slate,
thin fold of skin
against what tomorrow
brings
no rhymes
problems in the daylight
and mostly at night

only living
without being
truly alive,
I come as a poet
with problems at night.

hey, I went to see where
the birds went today now that it’s the
rainy season. .

I left the country without consulting any of my friends
so I’d surely miss all of them though
it was selfish but I honestly think
selfish’s not going to bring them closer
to me.

I wonder who keeps the house running,
the people in it clothe and fed.
I wonder who took my place.
I hope he’s more deserving than I was
when I was with you.
it’s funny that I think these words
don’t belong to me for it has been used
many times before
by countless people we don’t know
but I guess it’s just the way it goes.

I guess it’s better to admit
that my words are no good from here on. . .

but hey. reckon you headed somewhere east
far from here.
I guess the birds are going to see you
then. say hi for me.

let a machine
do all the thinking
for a man
and he won't worry
about anything
but himself;
but let be a man
who does all the thinking
and he'll worry about everything excluding himself;
and today,
in this modern present day,
let an intellectual
read this kind of stuff
and he'll think of all the men
who might have said the same thing
and the author
becomes unoriginal,
pretentious to him.
this generation is fat.
this generation is at its peak disadvantage.
this generation
will never have its own
Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger,
Steinbeck, Ginsberg, McCullers, Rimbaud,
Plath, Fante, Bukowski,
Vonnegut, Camus etc. (and Nietzsche)
this generation. .
it is so tiring to think for it.

once i was proud to have it all over my sight,
these right words that fits each rhyme.
and after the consecutive strings she pulled,
i felt it wearing me out.

but first
let me tell you something anyone can relate to:

everyone goes through a tight relationship
on their youthful days and those were the days
life does its part best;
it lets you feel something to keep,
gives you a lot of memories you never
thought you had.

well, the only trail that leads me to it
is smiling about it, skipping all the bad parts
and focusing on to the best moments.

after a couple of years,
it completely disappeared
and today, i feel no trace of the past
and my words are no different than
train stations and traffic jams
but i'm with someone new now
and i guess it is never too late
to take a chance with the current.

In a tiny space in a room filled with sadness,
I hear you there holy light.
Loneliness isn’t that bad, just misinterpreted.
Of all the people I pass through as I walk each day,
Wherever I go, I never had a single thought
About being inside a crowded room other
Than elevators or small bar gigs.
So here is the thing:
A single note from any musical instrument
Could mean so much more than

The rest of its parts and yet,
We always ask for everyone to come
When we want them to.
.
Is it that hard to stop breathing for
A moment and see how it feels
Like to have something taken out of your life
And for that you have to keep moving on
And you have to function like you are some
Kind of a puzzle, complete with all its
Pieces.

Pieces.
These are the parts that should never
Go missing.
Any single one of them.

This is something you probably heard before
But chose to make no action
Just because no one really talks about it
And doing so would make you look or sound
Desperate or most likely
To be branded with terms
You don’t like being addressed with.

It’s not just depression, sadness, the broken or
the tragedy that lies beneath every story
untold.

It’s being aware that human hides don’t
Live that long and that everyone should
know.

There you have it.
You don’t hear it everyday.
But if you have any idea about what I mean
Then start making it today;
With the people such as your friends, relatives
And most likely people who are too
Or should I say, a little bit lost.

it's cold.
the moving casted
shadows from
the headlights of passing
cars,
reminds me of you.
all i see are limited
scenes slowly turning
from happiness
to a strange interference,
a howl in a slow phased dance.
i am in a cave
and when i open my eyes,
you know that
it's time to
read this down slowly,
the scenes are cut,
the end only means
moving forward.
it is cold tonight.

(BGM:  Greetings From Tuskan - Melancholia
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YC-lkqDE9U0)

times were hard. no one was to blame,
unaware, we asked for it. what was the hurry
for?

there ain’t something as pure as the
reminiscent rusty old
white gates and the glory
of the afternoon

nothing was ever too hot
or too cold
as cartoons were

the days, the tears of the troubled,
why did we asked for it?
our mothers did their best
our fathers did their best
our brothers,
our sisters, cousins

the white gates you no longer
recognize
the greetings you used to get

the letters are now electronic
why did we asked for it?

see? aren’t we all kind? we used to
be kind, right?

we preferred the smell of sampaguitas
over the illustrated perfumes

the artistry of our time, are now filled
with cigarettes, we see our lives with every drag

why did we asked for it?

reminiscent rusty old white gates
and the glory of the afternoon
where are you? where are we?
where is where?
reminiscent rusty old white gates,
your flaked skin has timed.
why did we asked for it?

scream as much as
you want
and
you'll never wake up
your neighbors.

whisper and you'll
never know
what stories
they would come up with.

silence your way
and you'll go mental.

please your neighbors
by shedding a heavy layer
of your skin
and you'll find yourself
living among
the dead.

live an outsider's life
away from the suburbs,
away from the streets,
away from the city

and

madmen's threshold
to tranquility you will find.

as much as i wanted to
force the insanity
through words,
the writer is long gone

what remains
are the howls of its
former self

only the beggars
and the cigarette
street vendors
can be excluded from
the numbness of the world. . .

vacation photos
shopping bags
thousand followers
and friends
fine dining
fame
fancy cars
a hundred year old champagne
political correctness
the rewarding feeling
the attention. .

we (they) have evolved
to a lesser being
with no purpose

and for when my direction
hits theirs (yours)
it would only cause
an exhausting and meaningless
bout of words to which
they (you) delusionalize
themselves with as to
an stimulating debate

i'm sorry. .
i guess i am as tired
as those exclusive school
graduates-activists
whenever there's
really nothing
to protest about
for the time being

whatever the rebut is,
"sure" comes in handy;
saves you all the trouble

i'll stop now..

writing is like a prayer
but completely different.

you write because you deny
that you don't need
anything from anyone
where in fact you're
not so sure what is.

you write it off,
all your worries
just for yourself
and it doesn't
bring anyone a purpose.

you write it off,
because the reason
is something else
you have yet
to realize on one
of your cigarette breaks
while staring at something
dead or steady
in the afternoon,
in the afterlife.

you write it off
as a coward,
as a mental case
who refuse to
come out of the surface,
as a daily bus window
seat passenger,
looking around too see
if god's roaming around
the same city streets.
you write it off
as someone who has a
tendency for a breakdown
inside a bomb shelter.

write it off as it gives you
false hopes.
write it off for it will remind
you of this reality:

writing is like a prayer,
it doesn't get answered.

i have that never
ending problem
and there's no time
for metaphors

feet on the
concrete cracks
that details war
going on in my head

the future, tomorrow and the next day
what form will it take?
how high will the bars be set this time?

and

i wish i was as tough as a dog;
more wounds
more fight left

and i wish this frail fighting
stance would be enough
to conceal my trembling body

i was born the heir
the favorite ******* of
the mother dog of poverty

christened with
lies to reveal

and

distance to ****

this is not my flag
it is my symbol
the ever rusting
seal of reality

the most rabid of dogs
in cages

and

the bluest among the
humming birds

i.
together with
all the other dogs.
refuse.
to.
yield.

till
all our
stilt steps
fills all the cracks

and

the smoke storms
brings death in our
my lungs.

tonight.

Most of the times
I neglect the truth away.
Never wanting to disturb
the calm waters.

The coming of age is over, spoiled
now that I have all the answers.
It's all coffee in the kitchen
with my feet tapping anxiously
sitting and waiting for the dead
working hours to move on its own,
dragging me away from freedom.

I never get control of my life,
honesty is a misunderstanding
and
depression is a misunderstanding,
a misleading coping mechanism
to slack a day or two in bed,
reading books that I'll never finish,
reading Bukowski poems
that does nothing but
make me embrace
the most comfortable
negativity there is.

Not doing anything at all,
just waiting for nothing
to happen until they move
me on another spot
that needs covering.

This individuality lacks
the guts to move independently,
lacks the guts to burn bridges
in exchange for a better path,
for a clearer space to breathe
where my state of mind is not questioned,
misunderstood or left untreated.

For ****'s sake,
relatives, strangers, friends, lovers,
corporations and unwanted
entitlements, responsibilities
just leave me alone.

I have been sober for months now,
and all you care about is
throwing all the things
that you think
is best for
me.

Well I could use a drink,
it's the best thing for me now,
that's for sure.

I wanted to bury what
I truly feel in this poem
but the anonymous
readers wants
to see if there's something
in this that would
push them further away
from the dead seconds
they'll be spending reading
but I keep failing them,
my sleeves are torn
and my flowers dead,
the words are dry
and the manning
operator of
the stream of my consciousness,
fat, balding and
unwillingly resigned to
the facts.
there is no more spit left
to spit and I've conjured
all the bad things out there.
All these words I have in here
are only here to expand
this poem;
and as the readers doubts
more,
I have to take this
part now to say what I really
mean:
You just can't expect life
to be as fair as how does
the wealthy have it
on their daily plates,
but don't get me wrong,
they have problems too
but not big enough
to drive anyone of them
to write this kind
of poem.

And yes,
I don't expect you
to find my shoes
appealing.

when you’re someone who’s keeping
someone
awake at night
remember that the apple won’t fall
and all that i forgot.

this mental state ain’t just an asset
but also a source of paranoia of all sorts.
you can pretend it’s not in yer (rrr) head
but it shows when your head
is clouded by beer or ******
or sober enough to start a fight with
reality.

how come it’s an asset?
many pretentious artists,
well i don’t know who is
but surely not all is as vibrant
as they seem to be.

wow!

the lines are awesome,
how about sharing it?

well. . .
I’m not so sure about this
but I think it’s not really
necessary to do so..

then why do you write these
scattered *******
that makes your reader
induce self-confusion
that also makes them think
that this is ******* and gay?

but, but they read it anyway.

well how do you know
someone or at least tell
that someone IS really reading this?

see?

you don’t exactly know how to
interpret that you and I
are

the

same.

The last part of happiness ends as a memory.

For all I know,
I don’t quite remember what
is considered a happy memory.
Is it those past trails when you
still don’t have any idea
of what happiness means
or is it sadness residing itself
as a tumor in your head
from your darkest
room nights?

Did we found something unnoticeable
from those people we meet
every day that made us
wrap our hide to the skin?

They tell you it is something you just don’t
tell people that easily
because people are the back
of their experiences and state
that you just don’t mess with
because you will be found out;

but a stifling conversation with yourself
inside that head
could make so much sense.
The majority refuses this
as a gift.

I stare at the people and their
intellect, their movements,
the inevitable fact that to
clash with them would be my demise.
I have an atom part of God’s senses
and all of it can be felt slightly
through isolation,
regression and weariness.

I am not capable of living like
this any longer as I live it one more
day after the other.

The wind probably knows it.
Probably because,
it’s the only thing that knows it
but if you think about it,
it makes sense in a way
where you can understand
why writers write and
******* always win.
(Charles Bukowski’s an exception)

Oh how you wish that
when you feel it the most,
the more it would show
and that you’d actually
show it
but you’re a pro when it
comes in hiding what
royal rumble of rats
are inside like it’s
an automatic reaction
from the nervous system
and you (I) don’t know about (you)
anyone here but,
it really ***** when
you think about it,
everyone’s having the
time of their lives.

Destiny exists but,
only as you’ve always predicted
it, like how you got hooked
by one of Morrissey’s
hit which is ‘Everyday is like Sunday,’
Destiny commands:
every single day of your life
to be like Sunday and you
can’t help it
and o!
Plus the fact that everyone’s
too focused in stardom
to know what is it
with Sundays and why
it is supposed to be sad
so you’re
in for like how Ozzy Man
puts it, “Destination ******!”

******* references...
since when did knowing
such things makes one hipster?

(Since every single *******
pedantic-narcissists including the closeted ones
got the idea when it trended of course; I know,
I am aware of the absurdity)

I'm afraid that the name of art
is eating our purpose,
the critics spread their disease

and

we are left with nothing

but

judgment towards one another.

Ordinary lives who tried to dismantle
their bodies to reinvent themselves
will soon lose the will to continue
their movement towards individuality.

The cliches will win

and

we are going to be left with nothing

but

judgment towards one another.

December’s days are numbered,
the New Year’s on its way
and will soon take me with it.
My bones are of the same set,
its whole test of endurance
will be displayed again
as I dodge bullet after bullet,
January light,
my birth month,
its fire will once again
grant me another age.
The scoreboard of this year,
I never saw my name on it.
This battle of stillness is nobody else’s
but mine and I’m its sole competitor
and yet, it still haven’t
consider me as its own.

I'll leave this for now. .
(as I am so tired of being
aware of all my weaknesses
and
the disability to improve them)

Let’s start with these
overpriced filters
for
heavy smokers..
I choose Tarshield
for it’s the cheapest  
****** brand
there is..

and if there’s a cheaper brand
Let the light guide me
to find it
in these
self-proclaimed
convenience stores.

brain shrinkage,
dialating eyes of confusion,
the molding of stress
in the pool of sobriety,
receding hairlines and
developing obesity,
the awry rationalization
of everyone's
depression in controlled economics,
the weariness in a blackhole,
sore feet,
sore body mass,
the lower backs breaking only for Moloch,
the lack of enthusiastic sense
to search for enjoyment,
for everything and anything,
one dead end leads to another,
the lights out hour
and
its deadly suffocating bed box
sadness machine;
as/while my relentless contemplation
for suicide delays,
I think I am more concerned
that with no savings at all,
the could/would-be bills for a funeral
may matter more than the death itself
but yeah,
this little enumeration
of a poem does no help
at all

but

a bottle of brandy
may help to make
it clear,
even for me.

This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.

trust me, i never want to
leave the poetic trance,
but tonight
i found out
everything about
the strain in looking straight,
we are nothing
but virgins for selfish desires.

look to your right,
who's with you?
who's that person
devotedly and passionately
holding you by the arms
and never letting go?

the hollowness in it
provides
no ledges or windowsills
to save you from the
survivable half-storey fall.

it's always shitfate,
always sullen aubergine
polaroid shots.
what shitluck to save you
from your yearnful desires?
head to the valleys,
the flood is tricky.
this poem is hiding something.
the heir can't be trusted.
the glimpse
is a catchy math rock jam
to keep you going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going. . . .

we both know all too well,
our pain never fails
to amuse me even at this point.

I am trying Camus, really I am.
For a headstart, I got fired
and received a one year ban
here in Dubai
for shouting back to that
Egyptian ****
who is
a poor excuse of a manager
who has no concept of humanity,
but **** humanity and
that job, and that Egyptian.

Humanity's been around for so long
that it has become a world epidemic.

Everyone's full of themselves,
In fact, everyone thinks
they are the perfect example
that everyone should follow.

No one's going to start a war
in this madness,
not when the war is
already inside our heads,
the wrong war mostly.

I believe we are at the
verge of humanity's
stupidity, it needs to end.

It's affecting lives.

Everyone has depression,
you and me,
including the one who
thinks 'memes' are fun;
including the one who
should emphasize himself as
someone who has it to form a sense
of identity.

You can't blame them you see,
hell, you can blame me for being
a poet out of commerce.
You can't blame the hipsters who
gather themselves in a poetry reading night,
I wouldn't go there even if they will
pay me base on how good my poems are
and these poems aren't for sale.
You can't blame the workers
for seeing less of themselves,
slaves to whip,
only now the whipping's mental,
they have families to feed Camus,
that's why they're here, to be
Christ-like and not to oppose.

I don't know Camus,
I really don't.

Are you trying to convince me?
If so, I don't understand the absurdity
of it all, not that I or anyone is able to.

You're probably right, it must be
the sobriety that is causing all of this.

Charles Bukowski, where are you?

lives are always under the dark clouds.
little kids who just wants to play outside,
in the sun,
in the rain,
away from the busy streets
of
the city
where childhood
meets
the end of the road.
further and further away,
it’s an endless road.

lives after lives after lives after lives...

no one looks
at the sky anymore
just like the way we did
when we were young.

we’re all in the same picture.
desperate lives,
kids who doesn’t want to grow up,
kids who realized too late,
old living room superheroes with capes
now wearing business suits and neckties,
bachelors employed in to something
they’ve been lied to,
hundreds of the kindest, smartest,
educated beings now demands
order through activism,
current bums in the streets still the heirs
of former bums in the past
the same with
current politicians,
heirs of former politicians.
countries, big ones
racing and paddling tirelessly
with people that serves as their
coal. . . .

it’s all happening and you know it.
it’s all happening but they keep you
distracted every two weeks in a month.
it’s all happening while you’re on your
knees with your eyes closed as you believe
in something you’ve been lied to
which costed millions of lives
through history before
it became what it is today.
it’s all happening;
one proof is that writers from
hidden parts of the world
and of history came to feel its
presence and has written it
as a reminder. . .

and

the one sitting on the dark throne
nullifies their stand
by keeping us occupied. . .

you got hired?
you got a raise?
you got promoted?
your boss recommends you?
your boss sends you gifts?
you got your own piece of the land?
you worked hard for it didn’t you?
for what?
to prepare the ones your worked for
just to suffer the same fate?
what?
i’m crazy?

oh you got admirers?
you just posted the smartest
useless thought that caught a lot
attention?
you feel secured because it won’t
come in your time
and
i’m just crazy?

yes,
like a mad dog under a
restraining order.

GOD and the guy wearing
red pajamas didn't partake
in any way in this madness
that is going on in this world.

man is responsible.

our leaders?
greedy *******.

wars?
negotiable.

the religious?
wise guys, crooks.

the media?
ask the Beliebers.

the people?
still clueless.

writers?
i'll leave it to you.

Oh good Lord, may you provide us with providence..
Merry are those who are deceitful at ease..
Wash away not only my sins but also my knowledge..
These index fingers are pointing at all direction...
This unclarified purpose is digesting my head..
Why do I loathe a lot of irrelevant things?
When my existence is a part of inconsistency..
I see the world from a moon in my isolation.
More and more souls are appearing to be a nuisance..
For the voice in my head told me so..
Such is defining gravity and drowning on a sunny day..
To a soul with feet fixed on the daily tracks..
Perceptions are unnecessary for these subjects..
Relying on hope itches my pessimism..
I am so eager to scrape my enemies but I don't know them..
And my thoughts.. why are they trying to **** me?

i can't be sure yet
but i don't want to be
disappointed
and disappointments
as they come raining,
i am more than
enough to have
room for one more. . .

i once knew a girl from college
whose face looked so
****** up.

two protruding sacks of swollen eyebags
is what her face most consisted of
but her buck tooth was a challenger
but never that noticeable.

her ******* were fairly large enough
for my palms,
her gut, average and slightly
matched her love handles.
her bob cut hair and the ends of it
showed disorder.

some people to me is more noticeable
when they try hard enough not to be.

and this girl just got all the hints
and layers of closet facts that
just needed a little bit of opening.

i wasn’t attracted nor in love
but more of curious,
there wasn’t anything happening
around those days
so i just observed in stale-pretense.

if there’s something i really want,
fickle ******* destiny
wants me to drool for it first
but this time, i tricked her
because i did not know what
i really wanted from the girl
and it just happened:
one night when the class was over
we knew that it was some minutes
past nine,
out of nowhere she asked
us if anyone would like to come
over at her house
to drink since it was friday.

most of our classmates were
plugged in to the system,
next in line before the leaders,
Christians and the like
who never dance,
who never give
who never admit and submit
from their truest form next to humanity
and if a foreign subtance
such as alcohol would enter their
bodies, their oath to the absence
of reason called faith would
be nullified with a stamp
of rejection from heaven.

so only a few of us rusty lungs
came with her.

she had her own car,
it was something,
helped build up
the tick and the vibe
to prepare our stomachs.

her house was mansion-like
and there
we smoked and we drank,
we drank and we smoked
in the biggest breathing-living room
i have ever been to;
she turned out to be
a daughter of a professional legitimate
robber, a.k.a. lawyer.
rich family outside the media.
class.

the place showed a malicious aura
and the lights were dim,
had dark reclining comfy sofas
and the one in the middle
can be setup as a bed.
she had a turtle back guitar
which looked so expensive
though old and seemed
to have been through dozens
dose of the blues for many nights
i’ll never know.

the first layer to reveal itself
off her sleeves was the fact that she
was an alcoholic *******
and what i mean by *******,
she could outlive the limits
of us guys and put us into shame,
leaving us question our
gender and pure existence
of our ***** before the
entire feminine side of her.

one of the guys
showed interest in her first,
checking her out and made
a move
but that didn’t bother me
because i was curious and not
in any vivid form to look for love.

it was funny because she seemed
so oblivious and all she wanted
was to have a good time drinking,
and the guy ended up with hanging blueballs.

most of the guys went in for her
and ended up looking like a loser
but i was the real loser.
during those times i just been past through
some complicated ****
so i never showed anything off my sleeves
but just to be there near her presence
along with the free drinks which consisted
mostly of
coke and *****.

those nights went on and on,
i never missed a night
whenever she invited us.

everything was everything as it was
until the times skipped a lot
of her layers.
as always
she invited us one night after
the examination week was over.

everyone was tired like a ******
factotum like from those
production factories, warehouses and
old attrition-prone post offices
just like how Bukowski described it.

we needed it, her invitation.
things went along as how it has always been
for us commoners at her house,
we drank, we converse drunk,
we argued over useless facts drunk,
we sang drunk, we smoked drunk,
we drank drunk and it went on,.
i was too drunk at that time to even remember
the important details but
in the middle of it,
she whispered something in my ear
and the words came vague to me
as the only word she was able to
articulate well was ‘go in the bathroom...’
so i went in, sat on the throne,
lit a cigarette and waited.
i’m telling you i won’t be
pretentious on this one because
in all sense of my sense
considering i have an inferiority complex,
i knew i was in for a treat...

she came in and closed the door and said,
“******* in front of my face...”
and so i did for the hell of it,
i haven’t been laid for a long, long time.

i worked and worked  
and in the middle of my silly beating
i noticed a change in her appearance,
she was staring at my chinese-descent ****
with compassion and
dedicated eyes that showed longing.
before me and my thing,
she looked divine and beautiful
with sadness all over her face,
it all came to me all at once
minus the drinks and my bloated gut.

she put it inside her mouth
when it got ambitious.
nothing can compare, it felt
right as it felt wrong.

she was drunker than i was
as she
bobbed her head, my hands were
submitted to the pleasure,
i swore i would’ve pushed her head
away but i didn’t

for

i didn’t need to, she stopped
three to four blocks away from the
threshold, her eyes was still on it
then she cried.

from there, i knew i was ******.
a girl crying,
in their bathroom with a guy
her parents would disapprove,
plus her mother was a lawyer
and worse, jail sentence.
i felt ******* and so i pulled my
pants up, apologized and
tried to wipe her tears
then she said something
i shouldn’t be writing here. . .

she confessed that she was *****
multiple times.
i asked her why tell me?
“because i feel so embarassed..”

i did what i should.
we spent more than half an hour
in the bathroom having the
conversation.
comforted her as she went on.
she revealed all that she could

and

as soon as we got out,
we were laughing and
we both knew we’re in a relationship.

it only lasted for less than two
weeks.

i broke her heart for some reason
that was mainly her fault,

she cried for me as she pleased
at some point.

i regretted it at some point,
not giving her a chance
and all that

but it was good.

it was all too good to last anyway
and

we just decided to be friends

and it was alright.

too alright for me
to consider something
to write about
over and over again,
in versions.

Al Ghurair ad,
January 13, 2017,
13 Dirhams,
a pack of Pall Malls
and a bottle of water,
with no dreams at all;
Jesus, Allah, Satan,
have you seen the line?
it was a rainbow illuminating
from an old projector.

how is it that people
never minded the facts?
no questions,
no disorder just
random breakdowns,
suicides of the frustrated,
lonely and depressed.

this you granted us
isn't a massive meat market
is it?
the line,
it's seamless in its
manageable horrors
and though the line
itself looked orderly,
the conversations
of the souls inside of it
were either
about something else
other than what lies at the
end of the line or
the hopes for
other better possibilities
after the line.

the temporary tracked souls,
as they pass us by
never saw the whole picture
of our depiction
but they know
your origin, Jesus, Allah,
Satan.

is the true human condition
in all its aspects
too bleak to bear
an alarming attention?

i don't understand
the line,
the tail of the beast,
the Hallelujah
and the Allahu Akbars
but I know you failed
us all, ending the line. .

For many years

and

more to come,

we won't be
spending them
together anymore.

It's a move

I've made
on my own

that caused it all.

The motions it took
must've hurt you
real bad.

I'm sorry.

Let me feel something
from it too,
'cause it's a flesh
wound in your chest.

You.

Was it too much?

It's a drug, I know.

It takes time to
wear off.

Everybody
waits.

I can't feel anything.

I go with
the wolves tonight.

they are going
to pluck
all of your
feathers first
before they
set you free.

everyone has
been built
tough,
less human
in UAE
and
even the cats
here, they
stare at you
aggresively
with their fangs
out.

i don't know
for how long
i could keep
the screaming
damp on the
back of my head
as it tries to
escape the fantasy
i made to keep
it asleep.

everything's much
better if these things
were taught in schools
mosques and churches
because humans,
including the bus drivers,
passengers, mall guards,
OFWs with their
life depending on CEOs,
and the people,
the people and the people
though having their
lives laid upon the cycle
and
the system,
still couldn't speak
or write about the
oppression made
natural on their blood.

and i'm struggling to find
an easy way out
the hard way just like
the rest of them...

no God would ever
be so kind and perfect
as they describe him
to let this all happen
and therefore, God
and his other versions
are just motor plugs
to keep the silent
ones going
and

for the others,
flesh, blood and
sweat

and for me
is writing all
the screams
that i could prevent.

the slowest, heaviest and the
lightest thing the artist carries
is a bag of bones and meat

slouching on the sofa
eyelids as heavy as
boulders

the artist tries to stay awake
as his brain fries for a little
pinch of creativity

the urban pollution embodies
the scene, his inspiration,
and the artist is missing:
gone along with the radio waves

a mild, slow torture is upon
him, he disregards this,
he smokes a cigarette
his eyes lay lifeless
through the night,
as cars, bikes
and garbage trucks fills
his mind

midnight calls him for sleep,
before it,
he remembers some
beautiful things in his
past life and never he
make it past through a single one
on the back of his head

he doesn't want any of it
and he is unconsciously
made to think that way,

he has given all of it away
to the void, doesn't remember
much about everything,
year by year and
what remains is
a shadow of him,
the world was never easy
on him

and the world
always criticized him
with one word:
'pretentious'

because all the world's
intelligence and cunningness
lies solely from that
particular word

with him as a witness
from this comedic
tragedy.

You are not like this.
It is what the world wants
you to be.
Are you angry?
Are you upset?
Do you extinguish your demons
with your cigarette breaks?
Do you hate everything?
Does the matter itself
brings you closer to the end?
Does the fire in your head
breaks your spirit little by
little every time you
think you've been fooled
all along?
Stand.
Don't take a step.
Let the train have its
way.
You are made for this,
flesh by flesh.
Your finish is grace.
Afraid?
Fear embodies you.
You don't know fear anymore.
You don't have to care.
The world does not care.
A recluse is better than
a narcissist in every way.
It's the world.
It's not this poem.
It's not what you think.
Every body is burning
and you are one of the few
with the thin skin
who feels it, expresses it,
molded by it.
Bukowski knows this
and he doesn't want me
to repeat it for him
but he's dead and I guess
I will be too.
It burns.

we are not gonna fit into
those holes because
we are not used to change,
afraid of change,
always burying within
the confines of self comfort.

tell me, why I am not designed
for this and that's perfectly fine,
convince me that
it's completely okay to be
emotional;
it's just that they don't acknowledge
it like they used to in the
old days.

it's not alright to feel
this way all the time and
we've tried almost everything
but the problem is that it's just
us, wanting to always
feel in the rain
while smoking cigarettes
in a dark 6am morning
where the stillness
doesn't say much
and the rain completes
what we couldn't.

maybe Real Friends
is right,
this place
is the same and we're just
changing.

maybe Dan Campbell
really is Aaron West,
my, I sure hope not.

maybe the boys from
Modern Baseball
just needs
to take a break;
Brendan, Jake, if you
read this,
know that I feel
the same way too
about
mental health
and depression
and the people who have
'em really needs help.

i wish we have
all the lines
and
all the time
but we don't and
we can only hope
for things to get better
any time soon. .

Hey, I may be gone
out of your life
but don't feel all low
just because of that.

There are still more things
to do than just
wallow in sadness
because of me.

It's heavy, it's dark,
it's weakening like
wet clothes to the skin
in a cold rainy night,
I know.

Smoking
now makes more sense
and drinking hard
is more important
than anything else there is
because
you don't want
to be surrounded

with the unsettling feeling
of missing me
but I won't stop you
if that's what
it is going to take
for you to become
better.

It will hurt
and hurt
and hurt
for many days and nights,
it won't stop until
you become so tired of
feeling the same
everyday.

I've been there.

It may take years before
the image of me
becomes completely erased
and only my name
will be all that's
left to your memory of
us.

Someday, everything
will make sense
but for tonight,
as the others
carry on
while you lay still,

it will
hurt you,

and it's for the best.

Hail Raymond!
The corners of the room is with you
The silence of the room is within you
The empty and the hollow feeling
is reaching a thousand yards down,
aiming for your throat and you cover
your heart just a little tight for no butterflies
to escape

The sunlight intruder through the window
tells what muscles are made for and you're
not one for more than the hours a creative
mind to waste

The night is your salvation,
Words, alcohol and cigarettes are your
salvation

You don't go well .

As businessmen, in your eyes, are just
men playing God paying other men to be
their broad daylight bad omen

O Raymond, you've written so many letters
to yourself and you don't read them

You fancy the letters as the steering wheel
of your life and those letters aren't
steering your life well enough to sound
mentally well

Raymond, you have so few friends, vocabulary and ambition for today,
what did you do today that is different
from yesterday?
What limbs you have aching now?

You've become so poetic and yet
you are behind, far away from those who swim happily through the deceiver's pool

Raymond. Raymond!
You need to wake up more than
everybody else, the rapid smoking doesn't
help but if it helps you,
may your seasonal belief in faiths and miracles save you from your flesh.

Raymond, we won't be getting
anywhere anytime soon.

Raymond, don't let go of the last hours
of solitude every night.

It's our only hope.

Raymond, you poor *******.

we had the most saddest and hidden swaying drunken nights,
all of us, friends
from the bitter ends,
in a yearly interchangeable
roster,
the purely
'stick arounds-or-be awfully missed'
gathered around alcohol
talking silly, laughing
at each other's stories
and sensible nonsense
with smoke in our lungs
and spits on the
balcony's neutral corner
for ****, spit and puke,
singing halfway songs,
remembering
remember's contents,
it's like a boat without a captain,
just reckless abandons,
relentlessly hardworking morons
who are in debt in
finding out the worth
of it all outside
the confines of sobriety.
whenever we make it to
the nearing dawn
as drunk *****
carrying the weight
of the fun abuse from
the night before;
sore throat, oily hair, ***** fingernails, weak joints, bloodshot eyes, bleeding sentiments, sweaty forehead, sweaty palms,
moments i most feel like ****
though **** i am really are
but i feel great,
i feel more human despite the few
friends i have
who tolerate
the wrong in me as
i tolerate theirs,
there is nothing more to
life than moments
you could never relive
once you let the bad in you
take control in
grace.

that rain and the soiled
streets of our muddy hometown,
i remember my hands
soaking wet
and the in-between spaces
of my finger nails were
***** from hard work,
i ease the tension
in my veins with a cigarette,
smoking in the rain.
how my body shaked
from the cold and i thought. .
i must be alive
and surely death is
miles and miles away
and i've got to carry
this heavy machine
as Christ to his cross.
i spit some blood
but from my own doing
and witnessing so. . .
yes, i must be,
truly,
surely,
******* alive
in euphoria
like a *******
and yes i was drunk.
drunk after the graveyard
the shift
and i smoked and smoked
for i was willing to
spit some more blood
but my mouth was dry
but my eyes weren't.
i wasn't trying to prove
anything and i already
know the people from this
age of internet too well.
i wanted to run
with this violated lungs.
i wanted to sing and scream
with this smoke fried throat.
i wanted to empty
all of my desires.
i wanted so many things but
God, you made me in your own
image but unlike you i'm an
immortal being.
the soil the mud the rain the desires
the smoke the people who read this your creation my narcissism the arabs the people who read this and their view of me as pretentious the sick ******* who derailed me the rain the rain the rain the smoke in the ******* rain the smoke in the ******* rain