“In sickness and in health
till death do us part”

She exploded in my heart
threw me off my feet

Across a living room filled
with nights only she can host

I spoke of her to those across the world
who will never experience what it is
to fall for a city
it is beyond patriotism
this ineffable love for a sleepless phenomenon
who homes strangers
shook the world
with shockwaves
that equaled the chemical imbalance
its people have for their city

Under the debris of sparkling glass
she was broken  
there’s so much she can withstand
even when we always stand by her side
shards engrave themselves under thick skin
poking at the body that still believes in love at first breath

At a heart that does not know how to stop
At a will-power that questions its creator about its strength
At a body that homes an identity beyond this world
alien to it

toxicity hovered in lungs

And across skies
blushing clouds
turning them pink

Sunset wasn’t serene

The ocean cradled bodies

on their way to the afterlife

They cried salty tears


Fed up.

Her soil has felt the stomping anger of grieving mothers, fathers, husbands
families
the last words of suffocating victims who never lost hope till

The angels opened the doors of the sky

To welcome new brave souls into the heavens
to lead by example
their white coffins
wed the earth with the skies
they watch over us

Brooms brushed her face
Hands held others
Homes homed
Revolutionists revolted
Nooses were hung
judgment day is knocking
at our hearts
and mind you, we are known
for our hospitality

She cannot cry

She never did

It never suited her

But she sure knows how to roar
how to devour
parasites feeding at her immortality

I wear your ring around my finger

“In sickness and in health
till nothing does us part”

A tavern built on misdeeds and insurrection,
House of rascals, whisky and imperfection
A hideaway for rebels and racketeers,
Where drinks are served to outlaws and mutineers,
Where the pianist plays for pirates and privateers,
Where the wicked and the wayward can be served,
And are respected however undeserved.

It’s a rag-tag bunch of outlaws and anarchists,
A cavalcade of rough revolutionists,
So come on in my dear insurrectionist,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

Come and join our banished battalion,
Join our cause, oh revered rapscallion,
So calling out to nature’s abominations,
We’ve got bourbon, bombshells and indignation,
Come and wait for imminent and sure damnation,
No matter what your deviance may be,
Come and join the drunken reverie.

It’s a monument to lost souls and deviants,
A shrine to every small disobedience,
A riotous, cathartic experience,
Where radicals are safe from reprimand,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

Welcome back, my worshipped renegade,
To the place where freedom’s sweet as lemonade,
Where skanks and outlaws, sing so intoxicated,
The anthem of the unkempt and agitated,
The mantra of the evil and of the hated,
Laughing as they sing their merry tune,
Unified by their impending doom.

It’s a testament to chaos and anarchy,
A haven for the worst of humanity,
A house of lawlessness and profanity,
Welcome to our lawless little band,
Welcome to the Tavern of the ******.

the cold had caused much restlessness
within our people's heart
the vengeful hand guiding their hate
would tear our lives apart.

the sun was setting on our reign
and night was closing in
worried visions peirced our sleep
and burrowed deep within.

the verdent hues of spring were near
but just beyond our reach
for on the ides they took us too
a land of snowy beasts

so there we stayed until the sun
rose dizzyingly high
and when the ****** snows did melt,
they brought us back to die

Imprisoned in a gilded cage
with summer drawing near
the revolutionists appraoched
injecting us with fear

we had our frozen dew drops royal
stitched around our waists
a final effort to release
our family from this fate

then when the moon was high at night
when evil things do crawl
they took us down below the house
lined up against a wall

their bullets pierced our fathers heart
murdered our brother too
and diamond corsets failed to stop
royal blood from running blue

it poured out over all the ground
the watchmaker had won
the royal lineage was dead
our priviledged lives undone

the vessels we had once possessed
endured the desecration
of acid baths and deep mine shafts
and burning mutilation

and so about two weeks inside
the seventh month, july
the last of russia's royalty
would bid their lives goodbye.

For Anastasia

Give patience, Lord, to us Thy children
In these dark, stormy days to bear
The persecution of our people,
The torture falling to our share.
--
When we are plundered and insulted
In days of mutinous unrest
We turn for help to thee, Christ-Saviour,
That we may stand the bitter test.
                                -Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanov

Weakened by the revolutionists,
they lived their last days out simply.
Cold borscht and cabbage rolls.
The family was herded to the slaughter house.

Precious jewels and ikons sewn into their clothing,
Give strength, Just God, to us who need it.
The baby boy was butchered like a suckling piglet.

Low ceilings and dim light made it hard
to take aim and fire. Tears and prayers collided
with bullets and blood, spattered on the walls.
A thick cloud of smoke and plaster settled
upon a dynasty dead.

She raised herself from the dead,
Clawing, moaning, screaming,
stifled by blood--
Then disappeared, falling into
the abyss of immortality.

Clouds were getting ready to shower this earth
I was waiting for this moment walking through the path
A spirit so dried out, kept its tired hope on the sky
Praying for a thunderstorm to end this spell of dry.

Then came the rain like a bunch of playful children
Lovingly embracing the mother earth with the strain
Wind was roaring and powering through the trees
Like a group of revolutionists, who got free without cease –

As I was enjoying this savage love, every drop of water
I surrendered myself to nature’s most gripping disaster.

wearing blue uniforms in different patterns,
see-through embroidered shirts,
suits and ties

the lead force knows what we need
and what should be done;
the revolutionists and communists
or perhaps citizens beware

these elevated-angels can no longer be reached,
we’re down in the sewers, in the gutters

their leader is faceless, faceless faces
like shadows you can never win against
nor at least inflict harm to

they are everywhere monitoring us
in our private moments, the shadows
cast upon the light of our television sets
in our living room with its lights turned off,
the paranoia in the streets where cctvs
serves as a notion that someone is watching
us

observing our delayed bills, monthly salaries
and taxes along with our debts and its interests.
the short-sweet remedy is its scent from
the entertainment shows that has
strong amplified hypnotizing voice from
artists forcing us to accept all their opinions
are lawful and just

the guardians of the traffic roads
respawned by the motherlings and the all
time fathers of the unknown;
the producers of angry motorists and
robbers.
the bosses
the managers
the CEOs
the licensed practitioners

they all gain a part of the gift of their path
and no alternative force can stop them.
their vital strength also serves as
their fatal weakness
and they are glad that the cycle
is almost stable.

they all belong to a one big underground
family tree, bound to make humanity
suffer, taken away from the
essence and purpose of living

and

i’m here on a refuge, smoking every
inches of cigarettes i could light.
writing the words down like a ***
with a signage that says “the end is nigh”
and it would take a couple of decades
for it to take effect on them to
think that they should’ve listened

not
to
me

but
to

the truth.

All knew they were made from water
and earth
and when they got older
also made from a little wine, a little song, a little reverie.

Their urge for change built into their bones,
revolutionists by the fact of their birth.

Birthed into a time of their own
to stretch further than their peers
to go and shine a light into the unknown.

To feel the pain of their generation
generation of freedom, generation of growth.

a tribute to TAHIR SQUARE CAIRO


intensified by the desire of better life,they came on streets...slogans echoed in air of serene and peaceful environment,air started filled with the spark of revolution,lanes started mark themselves with footsteps of revolutionists,and hearts started beating on new frequency......it was a dark world,with sleeping saints and guarding demons,it was the blue evening with no hope of rising sun..it was the part of that world on face of map where the suffocation started making its heap......

insomnia ,in part of our life,sometimes is the biggest need,like the necessity of air..it is needed badly so the eyes for a time being forget the pathways to sleep....awakening is blessing,but it becomes an eternal gift when  eyes adopt themSELVES to it even the night is dark and the lights are dead....Fears ,the guard of our beating heart,but Courage is most fruitful when it scratches it off from the trembling body,when the winters on its bloom,and coldness has resided in big veins....

mark of each and every footstep if u observe ,it will reveal u different stories of courage,determination,evolution and un-ended fight.....traces disappear ,but sand particles always remember the kiss of those brave hearts ,of voices against slavery,of intense struggle,of new hope .....the sweet pungent aroma of those slogans in air,is always remarked with the tears of appreciation,bright smiles of honor and pride.....though the nations of nations will be changed in drift of seconds,but submergence in deep ocean of revolution ,once u dive in it,than the heart and soul of urs can drink all the blue waters of this universe and still it will stay unquenched..


like a wild flower,
near the stream of flowing fresh water,
with sun sparkling at height of a new day,
stay there with  ur roots affirmed,
with ur petals fresh,
be they painful to the passing byes,
but stay there
with sweet pungent smell
with courage un faltered
with face so innocent....

little words ,a shelter.a refuge,an expression to me,for defining the world of faith,of hope,of sensitivity,of feeling high when nature is lowering u down,of bravery,of same repeating sentences but with different  meanings again and again...of PARADISE,of LIFE!!

hiramalik

you know,
it’s not easy
to be a woman
with a gunshot wound
and torn wings
on her back.
it’s not easy to
love a woman
who spins
in circles
and acts
like a maniac.
it’s not simple
to exist
in the poetic
tenebrosity
of this
era of living.
there are
hearts
shrouded with
darkness
pierced with
the tongs of their
garden rakes.
there are heads
on stakes
that never got
to stand
away from the
shadows,
shadows that were
casted upon them
for no reason
but that they
were labeled
evil, and so
they thought
they were,
they believed
they were,
they knew
they were.
it’s not easy
to be a person
with an honest
heartbeat on
the drug, littered
and pest invested
streets.
it’s easy,
(apparently),
to go about your
day without
even processing
the torture
some souls
go through just
for their eyes
to never be opened
for
their hearts to never
be warmed
with the
same blaze
you set in your home
to make it feel
all cozy and aesthetic
around the
holiday season.
it’s easy
to turn a blind
eye, to deny
the vile nature
of the bones that
outline souls of all
kinds of barbaric
creatures.
it’s easy to
look upon
it with a grimace,
with a dishonest
appeal to
strengthen the
crevices of
your heart that you
have to fulfill
to prove to some
entity of yourself
that you are a
kind person.
that you aren’t
selfish and
unsparing.
but is it working?
cause although
i see the flames
in your brownish
quite convincing eyeballs
i do see help,
i do spot the parts
of your sweet heart
in your retinas
undamaged by the
bright sun,
i do see the
endearment
lay claim on
your lips.
i see it.
i see it all.
it’s not easy
being a human
in a world where
opportunity only
comes to those
who only see
because they are
told to,
that only see what
they are told
that they can see,
and they hear
what they are
bound to hear
and so on.
it’s not easy
to crawl on
your fractured knees
and twisted ankles
in a pit of
venomous vipers.
it’s so easy
to see the crime,
the shame,
the atrocities,
and try
nothing to stop it.
it’s not easy
being a man
with gunshot wounds
in a combative
ill-conducted
circus,
navigating his
way through
the scattered
yelps of his
brothers
who got lost
in the shadows
and never returned.
you only hear
what you want
to hear.
the truth
aches more
than shoving a
rocket ship
up your runny
nose and
for valid reasons.
don’t shut out the voices of your own children, Society.
don’t separate the stories
of those
who will end
their lives being
ignited in the same
fire, in the exact
same
flame
that touched
the skin of
the silent pleading
children
who were never understood
of the people who
wrote a trillion words
and still weren’t heard
of the vagabonds
that were
casted out of
their villages and
wandered so far
that they lost
sight of who they
were.
some songs
are never
sung,
some instruments
broken and never
played,
millions of killers
never
prosecuted,
victims that
never got their
justice,
some babies never
born,
tens upon thousands
of lifetimes
forgotten.
some darknesses
are too violent.
some corruption
too manic.
it’s not easy
being a human
with bullet wounds
and
gashes
on our backs.
the shadows
of the universe
make us maniacs.
you reap
what you sow,
and you’re gonna
have to battle
millions of
justifiably
angry revolutionists…
so do you want to do this
the easy way,
or the hard way?
pick your machine guns that will always run out of bullets,

we will always have our voices.