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hani aqil Mar 2018
stepped into the gallery;
stepped onto pristine marble floors, sheen-decked, with our
grubby school shoes like
mud on palace gates;
stepped into a world of
suits and champagne and jewelry,
of cheese we couldn't pronounce,
of empty speeches and pretence;
"******* ***", as you put it.

walked around the exhibition, you weren't
all that impressed and you
didn't really keep quiet about it.

you were the only one, I think.

rich powerful men scare me.

walked down the hall, past
twenty closed doors, extending as if
mirrored to infinity;

were still unimpressed,
"This doesn't really work,"
you said.
"I feel like he's done
Everything he can with this style."

I think the same but I don't say the same.
rich powerful men scare me.

I wonder if
they're ******* their daughters behind those closed doors.
a poem about visiting a high end photography opening with my friends
hani aqil Mar 2018
sometimes I get
in my ambition; a

venus fly-trap.

people are only
numbers on paper to cull
paintings on canvas to crush
medals, trophies, certificates to
crumble, burn,
charred broken ash;

flies to squash.
hani aqil Mar 2018
I feel like I've lost a piece of me.
I don't know when.
I don't know where, or how.

Maybe, I dropped it in broad daylight.
Maybe, someone stole it in the night.


Come back,
little piece,

You leave me an empty
fragile chrysalis flaking
away little bit by little bit a

Jigsaw falling out of place.
hani aqil Mar 2018
heaven was
ink set in binded text
cotton veils on prayer mats
a never ending trial
guilty day by guilty night
higher presence
cornering me.

but when I was
in your arms, heaven was
so close I didn't even have to reach,
I could taste it,
sweet syurga;
your rose-dusted cheeks,
petal soft,
the tips of butterfly feet, gentle
against my neck, your hair, framing your face so


jet black waterfall slipping through my fingers gripping, gripping at
liquid so


God is dead.
God is dead.
God is dead.




(syurga = heaven, but it also sounds like sugar so)
Hey Guys im gay, im sad, i have boundless religious angst in me, the Usual.
hani aqil Mar 2018

forgive me,

this chest scar,
is a crack in the heartland,
deep rupture,
grime and shadow seeping in.

an infinite black lake.

I can see
my reflection clear in it;
it is
broken glass, fragmented and
reassembled again,
monstrous, twisted as a
swan dipped in oil, drowned twice, feathers
lathered so thickly, so

oil, oil, it drips so
slowly and sickly and
when u dont like anything abt urself anymore lol
hani aqil Mar 2018
(TW for gore, ****** abuse, ******)

i dreamt she
deepthroated a knife
mouth settling around the blade,
lips split,
two tongued succubus.

tip of the knife
dragged round and round
her plump, sweet thighs
carving fishnets in flesh.

are not a father.

a father shouldn’t
want to ram his
insatiable ****
into his


fish on deck
choking on air
spluttering, scales fluttering,
entwined in honeycomb plastic.
this was very difficult but ultimately very satisfying for me to write. my ex's father was an abusive cheater who expressed interest in her, and she'd occasionally tell me about her nightmares or experiences. it really affected me, as someone with a very stable and loving family background. i was really scared, and confused, and most of all disgusted. i remember once i leaned over a toilet at 3 am and wanted to gag so bad. abusive parents can burn in hell. when your child has to recover from their childhood, youve failed miserably at being a parent and a decent human being.
if you have abusive parents, my heart goes out to you. if you have been sexually assaulted, my heart goes out to you. stay strong i love you.
also, fishnets as in the stocking things are supposed to represent sexualization and in the last stanza theres a ref to a fish being trapped in a net (a fish net...!)
hani aqil Mar 2018
a flower can only
bloom once be
plucked once,
wilt once.
hey we all make bad choices
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