Monday, November 28, 2011


Wild grass line the twin pools
so shallow the water, it seems silly
that the depths of the Soul reflects in them.
A blinking mouth that spews your darkest secrets.

Fluorescent sewage floats near the surface
blue, green, hazel and brown; A beautiful mirage.
The purest is the blackness of still water.
Sincerity, wickedness, nothing is visible for deduction.

When another glimpse their countenance reflected,
the proximity alone suggests intimacy.
Even distant stars nestle in these pools;
where Love and the Universe swim together.

Instruments for perception, allowing 
concrete basis for this mad reality.
When looking into a mirror
who is it that you see?

Friday, November 25, 2011


I am not silent because there is gold
in my mouth. In my mouth there is
my heart. If I speak, it will fall out
with it, the words in my veins.

It is questionable to write in
a language you don't speak in,
but don't stop reading because
soon I'll start bleeding and you'll hear me.

Speak I will not, til my voice is of age.
Til my tongue speaks the language
of my mind and be able to show you
the atoms in this world of mine.

Time is relative.
Forever isn't always Never.
The day will come when my unspeakables
will pour out of me like holy parables.

The Maverick

Wooden floors, solid wood if I can afford it. In the meanwhile, faux wood flooring will do. Mahogany shelves lining the off-white walls, ivory perhaps. A couple of paintings on the wall (of dila's), behind the counter? (also wooden). A record player hooked to a decent sound system for shimmery hot afternoons. A coffee machine (though I don't drink coffee). A long wooden table facing a raised platform, a mini stage for readings/recitals/lectures etc. A projector (for playing films / presentations). A backroom to be converted into a surau (for easy access).


Literary behemoths. 
The Holy Qur'an & other Islamic books (for this life is a blessing from Him).

A doormat that says, 'Step lightly'.

A smaller sign near the door that says The Maverick with a quote ''Enter, tis light in here." underneath...maybe.

I will chew on this (more) later.

But I know that such heights will only bring me down.
Life is temporary, the hereafter is not.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Age of anarchy

Retarded in many sense
the fate of my country lies in the hands
of weak hearted ignorami such as I.
We do not seek justice.
Not for the impoverished cretins
not for the blushing babes,
not even for our sloth selves.

Our heads filled with fluff
brought by the wave of western hysteria
even their existential fears of existence,
the young drink without shame.
I am afraid I am the same.
The Great Depression of my generation is of a different kind
indifference is the bomb that hollows lands.

Patriotisme is but flimsy flags
paraded upon lawns and vehicles
whilst not a shred of the cloth in their hearts.
Patriotisme is dead.
History is a dusty archive
forgotten even when memorized.
This is the age of witlessness, of invisible anarchy.

The papers do not speak for the people,
it speaks to them.
The people do not have a voice
nor do they seek to speak.
27 million people with nothing to say
27 million people of no vision
27 million people of a tranquilized nation.

Nobody wishes to labour for love
to save the future that is sublimating.
They much rather bleed into the mouths of foreign
capitalists whom they serve their own souls.
We're livestocks bred for parasites.
Not heeding the cry for a revolution,
my generation is suicidal.


My mind is feeble.
I engorge myself with visions of you
and your weltanschauung,
so exquisite it tugs the arteries of my heart
and threaten to rip my valves,
this heat in my blood is my passion
to be worldly and dispassionate like you.

I claw at your stratosphere,
so I may breathe the air you breathe
but my lungs aren't made for it.
The sad howling of the wind you sometimes hear
that is my longing for you.
If I could just stand before you and not cower
perhaps I'll discover the key to my destiny.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


I am metal dust to her bipolarity.
My mind annihilated,
I obey and dance to her tune,
much like a pacemaker sets the beats of a heart
she is my metronome within.

My normally calm and measured nature
reduced to neurotic compulsiveness as I abide
to her sly dictations. When not present (especially)
she rules me entirely.
I am captive to this pitiful idolatry.

I confess, I have tried frequently,
desperately to purge myself. I seek redemption
with a passion yet ultimately my soul rebels.
Tis true. She is the fire in me.
My fey, vicious Muse.

If I could wipe from my memory
anything I choose, it would be you.
But I realize,
along with you
I myself will dematerialize.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The Howlers

Childhood was confusing.
Laughter echoed in long stretches of silence
and smiles lasted as faint after-images.
Love was present but felt like an apparition.

They were trained not to love
so instead, they learn to howl.
An awuuuuu for a night of deafening terrors
and an awuuuwu for a night of deadly tears.

Broken goods in lovely packages,
the sadness within glittered in their eyes
laced their gestures and gazes.
People can see this lonesome beauty.

Even though they remember the exact words
that were flung through the house
could taste still their poison,
they knew better than to keep listening.

The howlers grow up wild.
The love they never felt as a child
became a fire that consumes sanity
but regardless, creates beauty.

The howlers may claim invincibility
when they are the epitome of fragility.
Their past in their bones
they let the flesh ripen.

When you see a howler, you'll know they're howlers.
The song in their movements,
the intricate patterns of their scarred countenance
though masked, always apparent.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


The boy wonders what it takes to be visionary
to have wings and be able to fly
so you can leave this world and its people
to live in a heaven of sorts
where you can create and love reciprocates.

But he doe not know that he is capable.
The bronze buttons on his blazers are symbols
of both luxury and oppression.
Impoverished of realities he is caged in softness
and blinding supervision, which he mistook for providence.

A dear young boy,
his fanciful chatter is but white noise
born from an oblique mind, oblivious, impervious.
He watches the old man pandering his charm
and fixates on the gold watch, cold to the touch.

His curiosity seeks ultimate beauty,
it blossoms in his chest and makes his breath sweet.
Nonetheless the flagrancy inflicted upon him
is a heritage that shall not crumble easily.
If his flower is not to wither, he must grow, a maverick.

Friday, November 11, 2011


Empty laughter bedeck the night sky
solitarily I faced her
ensconed in velvety confusion,
me, the moon, we're one and the same.

I did not perceive sorrow from her
nor loneliness. I fixated on her beauty
her ever shining, scarred countenance.
Such loveliness needs only admiration.

The moon and I, we orbit our worlds
we circumference life in a perfect unbroken circle.
We bask in darkness
and let light shine through our beings.

Gravity, why do you hold us back?
The universe is infinite, so is our love.
To fall like meteors and burn
let us be incandescent.

In the company of familiar strangers
I dance this private waltz
to music only she and I could hear,
the moon and I, we glide through our fears.