i have a beak in my face
and
it’s a beak and is attached to me.

i’ve learned to live with it,
its weight and its size
that always made me look down,
its length that is longer than
my shoulders both left and right,
and its upper and lower mandible
that always made smoking effortless.  

the only time i raise it is
when i have to drink water or
swallow crumbs to eat where
i put a lot of effort and it’s
tiring really.

people never notice it that much
and i guess if they do, they won’t be able
to tell difference.

the birds in the park
including the ducks never notice it.
they fly away after the crumbs i threw
are finished.

some of my few friends’ advise is to get
wings and feathers
and i ask
whether if it should be black or white.
i’ve never heard from them ever since
i asked them that question.

i didn’t follow their advise and just
continued the way i was with my beak
in my face.

some nights i dream of not having it
and the dream turns into a nightmare.
the only time i would wake up
is when it’s attached to me again.

i’m not really bothered by it,
not anymore.

and though i think i am alone,
i’ve always believed that there
are others like me and the chances
of meeting them is small,
it’s funny because
i’m always facing down.

i wrote about you
and i wrote about her,
it's like writing's
the only remaining
thing worthy
of a wholesome good ****
any desperate tough guy
act person could offer.

writing is awful
but every ending
of it releases all the
bad that needs to get out.

like your one friend
who doesn't take off
his shoes when he comes
barging in to your house,
and in your room,
you know
writing is there for you,
especially when you're
drunk all by yourself
either because you
just wanted to ****
yourself up or because
of some ****
you need to get over
with.

i don't know about you
but it's. . .

better than ***,
better than dope,
better than ulcer and smoking,
smoking and ulcer,
better than bleeding fists
and anything swollen due
to excessive and meaningless beating,
and a lot more better if
it is
the only thing
you'd ever wish
to be good at. . .

the burning sensation on my feet
inside my socks on a radiant day
is a sign that hell truly is a
sole-inch away.

the bums are the birds
their pecks as ***** palms
and our change
are the crumbs.

the mall is a one massive arcade
inside of it are the machines
we play;
one works with one or two credits
and the others works for dozens.
the rich gets to play at ease
but the poor plays with
dual frustration, be it with
the old or new games
and no matter how many
times the poor wins,
the devil always prevails.

the road is a desert and its hellish
drivers are the vultures
and the travelers doesn't have a clue.

your ride home
is a short film,
narrated by the houses,
streets and different
churches from
religious cults

and the home is
where the tragic
takes a rest
and your eyes,
a projector.

"we can't do
anything with bare our hands."

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