revelations

A body lies on your bed. White haired, thin, thin lips drawn tight against the gums. Perhaps in pain. Perhaps in pleasure. You see its eyes. Their lids are veined, halfclosed. Clear fluids spill viscously from the corners causing stains to bloom on the sheet. Quietly, on either side of the head.

Its gaze seems to rest on the ceiling. A face shimmers on it like a watery reflection. It is white all over but for the eyes. Their blackness drips slowly onto the face below, vanishing upon contact. The body shudders. Its lips part, revealing dark tarstained gums. The mouth moves rapidly, overwhelmed by words. You take your recorder and push the red button. Eventually, the lips become still. You turn off the recorder and walk to your desk. You press ‘play’ and hear yourself repeatedly calling out your name.

insects

There are insects on the bathroom floor, coating it with slime and excrement. Black, quivering insects, trembling onward on a bed of goo. They chance upon beings thriving in the gaps between ceramic tiles. Some are eaten, pre digested. Others, with the smell of death on them, are left alone.
Buried in the insects’ animal unconscious is the notion of a place full of darkness, dirt and moisture, whose doors lie concealed beneath a tangled mass of skin and hair.
Across the tiles the insects quiver, leaving behind a tell-tale trail of slime and excrement.
As the insects approach their destination their bodies begin to harden. They burrow quickly through the clumps of hair and skin. They find the doors and slip through. And in the cool darkness of their underworld, they begin to feast on the filth of centuries as their bodies metamorphose.

black sheep

A black sheep fell into a drugged slumber and dreamt of a bird. It fluttered into a room that was no more; its colours flashing feverishly whenever they caught the sun. It alighted upon the sheep’s extended limb and poured its secrets into a black ear. Were they questions? Were they answers? The sheep did not know. But it listened because no bird had ever shown any interest in it before.

The bird pecked gently at a tuft of wool with its velvet beak before taking flight. It flew out an open window, past flowering creepers that bloomed at dusk. It soared into the clouds; the tuft of wool in its mouth streaming behind like a dark vapour trail. The sheep watched until the sky was consumed by the blackness of its fleece. And, turning away, it caught the first whiff of an evening flower as it burst into bloom.

a vision of my country in the distant future

it's 250 years later,
we're afloat in the ocean,
we have an exclusive economic zone.
we don't have a true shoreline
or sand.
sometimes there are tidalwave alerts
which no one heeds
except the elderly because
they don't want their homes
to move without prior warning.

children fish from porches
and play in kelp farms.
grownups work
at desalination plants,
at floating power stations
or in kelp farms.
mothers are expected to know how to make:
oyster cakes,
seaweed salads,
prawn casseroles,
wetsuits.

everyone still speaks dhivehi
with friends, wives, colleagues,
but no one speaks beyfulhu language
except for poets.
and those who speak beyfulhu language
are considered poets.
and shunned.
especially by other poets
who, as children, never fished from porches
and dream mostly about the ocean.
and speak of the beyfulhu ghosts
they glimpse in its depths.

music

She was tired. But he wanted to play her a tune on the upright piano all the same. He’d hummed it all the way home. It tinkled inside his head. She was tired of it. She wanted silence. But she was too fond of him to tell him. So she sat with him and listened. His hands swept over the keys in swift little strokes. It sounded better on the piano. He played for a few minutes. Then he stopped and let his hands rest on the keyboard. She moved closer to him. He looked at her.

“Well?”

“You know I don’t like any of that fast stuff”

“That wasn’t fast. That’s exactly how it’s meant to be.”

“I don’t like how it’s meant to be, then.”

“You’ve never liked my playing.”

“Oh, you know that’s not true now Ghaib.”

“You never did!”

“I didn’t say it was bad just then. Said I didn’t like it. Other people might, you know”

“But it’s for you, it came to me while I was walking with you. All right. Look. I’ll play it slow. OK? Slow. Just for you”


He played it again, slowly. She listened. It’s not unpleasant, she thought.

“It’s good. I like it much better now.”

She got up and walked towards the sofa. She sat facing the window. She saw the hills in the distance. They swam yellow and green in the heat. She reclined, facing away from him. He continued to play. The melody is infectious, she thought. She began to hum it softly.

It was dark when she woke. She got up and switched on the light. It swung gently from the ceiling, making the shadows sway back and forth. She stood looking at them until they stopped. She turned her face to the piano. The seat was empty. She went and opened the keyboard cover. There were no keys underneath. She shrugged and started humming.

There was a tap on the window. She looked and saw him. He grinned at her with a mouthful of ivories. Behind him stood a grave man holding a clipboard. More sheet music, she thought.

deathbed

you're on your deathbed
alone as you've always feared
the walls are red
and flickering with silhouettes
the ceiling is alive
with insects, humming
your funeral dirge

a breath falls
on your face
smelling like Mother
like her orange peels
she kept in a vase
with clumps of her hair.
a warm, cloying breath
that leaves quickly
like a shadow down the stairs.

morning song

tomorrow is today
and the great flies of morning
leap from cold window panes
and turn into slush inside frogs
in the grass, moistened by dewdrops

you can't fix it, mister cricket. it's broken and your chirping hurts my ears. but it's empty when you stop. so empty. i wish the stereo still worked.

children

such terrible things, she wept. such terrible things he did. she had the children with her she said. clean, innocuous things. yet she seemed frightened to bare them to the world, so they remained in her shadow, the shadow children. they had seen terror, smelled its rank breath on their tiny faces. but never again.
but she knew why. and the children knew because she did. because the children knew all she knew and felt long before she opened her mouth to tell them. she sometimes wondered how, but the beatings. the beatings took all wonderment out of her. so the children knew - this was the brute fact and she stopped wondering. but not before he took her tongue, teeth and eyes, which he ripped from her body and fed her one cool purple dawn. but he never struck the children. and the children knew and did nothing.
but she knew why.
the devil was in them. and she was patient.
she heard his screams as they flew at him one day. at midday. she heard the thin ripping sounds as their claws tore his skin and dug into his flesh. she heard the dull spatter of the first spurt of blood hit the wall. and she heard their chittering laughter, and it filled her with a fear as deep as her affection for them. for they were hers. they were his too, and for a moment he stood before her, his black wings covering the horizon.

birds

they neither sing
nor flutter their wings
and as she sank
into the grey of their eyes
she wondered if
they'd lost their minds.

fools only

we sold out. of course we did. we sold out long before we sat down like dogs to paw wildly at ergonomic keyboards in our first desperate attempt to sell ourselves.
later we laughed and fed our spirits to the paper shredder. we learnt to compromise.
and we know, in our gentle, emasculated hearts that all the excitement we could ever possibly want from life is to be found inside that artificially cooled cubicle.
yes, only fools want freedom.

only the trees

Before him were
only the trees and
his lunch. Wrapped tightly
in old kitchen paper.
The air was wet and heavy.
And lightning lit the sky
And threw shadows
that drew closer together
taking on a familiar shape.
And it slunk towards him.
This shadow-being.
And fell on his lap.
Its small torso against
his bony chest
like someone he once loved.
He rocked himself gently
back and forth.
And his left arm twitched
across the grass;
his hand closed around
the bundle in front of him.
And squeezed it until
the sludge oozed between his fingers
and dripped from them like love.

excerpts from bram stoker's dracula

When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him, he had been angry at his interruption at such a time, but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and recognized the strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to him as he held out his hand...

-----------


I did not see the application and told him so. For reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures, and said, "The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but not till then..."


------

Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken. Even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions.




perhaps bram unwittingly fancied a young stalwart manhood up his bottom.

her house

You are there. In her house. Among the wet paint smells. There is a mouth on the wall. There are eyes on the floor. They watch you. You close yours and dance as you did before. The eyes shut themselves and you become muddy impressions on their lids. The mouth opens and a tongue unrolls like a rough pink carpet. You step onto it. The tongue quivers under your feet. And disappears, taking you with it. You lose consciousness.

You wake and feel as though you are seeing the world for the first time. You see your mouth. It hangs open, as if in shock.

And you wait for her to come home.

but they loved you

But it’s because they loved you, dear daughter.
They loved you so much they had to have you.
They told me, dear daughter.
They told me they liked your eyes, your little rats’ eyes.
The ones you got from your father.
Just like them to like you.
How like them.
Let me stroke you now, dear daughter,
let me stroke your hair and your eyes and your face all blue.
Because you choked on their little cocks now, didn’t you?
But you’re my blue baby girl. You’re my blue monk baby.
And I won’t let them see you again.
I promise, dear daughter, because you’re blue and your lips are brown with rust.
We must get it off.
I must wash you now, in the river.
I must wash the taste of cock out of your mouth.
Dirty man-cocks, dear daughter.
Just like your dear father's.
Oh, I'd eat soap afterwards.
But I won’t let you, because I love you, blue.
Because mother loves you.

a nightmare

it was to do with a bow, booboo, i remember. and a book. and ants. to use the bow you had to read the book, but to read the book you had first to go through a ritual that would prepare you for the 'impact' of the knowledge. you had to coat on your arms with honey and let yourself be stung by the ants. a friend of mine screamed while he watched his penis wither away. but opening the book did worse, booboo. far worse. but the bow, with it you could make music from the air itself. but not just any music, it brought forth the very words god communicated to create everything we saw around us, and the things that we didn't. and it reduced you to a trembling mass of guck.

now, booboo, you and i were having a party at our place and the guests were being entertained by a girl who played the viola. we knew her. and i knew the bow she held in her hand for what it was. but she didn't. that was crucial. the guests meanwhile kept on smiling cluelessly and sipping from their cocktails.then the girl got off and a loud, guitar driven band began to play. i went to find the girl, i knew, as we know these things in dreams, that she couldn't leave our house because bad things would happen.

when i found her i couldn't tell her everything i knew because my tongue kept tripping over itself. i managed to tell her she shouldn't leave because she will die, but this was greeted with peals of commonsensical laughter and a torrent of words too fast to make out, by the girl and the surrounding people, who were really rocking it by that time. the girl grabbed her case and left. and the first rumble of thunder was heard.

then i completely lost my mind and scared the guests telling them they shouldn't leave because things were coming to get the girl. you took me to our room, which was awash with light the colour of nostalgia and soft red cushions. i started trying to explain things to you but you shushed me. then as i buried my face in your hair i heard the screams. and i felt, rather than saw, the two purple halfclosed eyes staring from a bruised face. beneath those eyes was only an obscenely wide purple mouth. and the purple lips puckered and began to whistle the saddest song we'd ever heard. and we cried until we were nothing but bloodstained droplets trembling on the floor.

belief

to be an atheist
is no more braver
than praying
to a god unseen
while walking faith's tightrope
stretched between
the towers of
madness and humanity
to be dogmatic
is no better than
to be blindfolded with
"reason's" lustrous garb
and to walk into the shadow
with the devil's own torch

s*#@

all about us are
shit filled monstrosities
masquerading as
literature
political parties
mothers
NGOs
drugaddled daughters
and doctors groping
patients in
skimpy
shit filled underwear.
the shit is everywhere,
and omniscient.

art

art is what artists do,
pure artists' do,
be it a urinal,
or a hanged man made
of waste material.
or the imprints of boobs.
art is a can of artist's poo
or a troupe of ugly nudes
art isn't always true.

a world without mirrors

will there be no use for mirrors in a world without
a concept of identity or self-hood?
will there be no myth, nor legends nor gods,
no narcissus drowning in his own
eyes, no sonnets, or odes to personified
entities? will there be no poetry?
no romance without idealized notions
of our 'selves', no I to govern
the totality of our thought?
will there be no fear
of the gaze of the other upon us?
will there be no horror at the reflection of our selves
in their eyes?
will there be no love then, in such a world,
and no fucking in front of mirrors?

soap

i am the bar of soap,
in your mother's stocking,
(the one she wore,
on her wedding day)
the one your father
takes to his hand
and spins spins spins.
the one he strikes
her belly with

26,000

a phone and
twenty six
thousand ruffiyaa
all packed in a bag,
with your little finger
pinned to the strap

beyond

if i am to die young,
as i've often fantasised,
it leaves me with
not enough time
to think
those things that lie beyond
the periphery of my thought
let alone frame
a true question.
it is my belief that
i am at present,
nothing more than
a fragile metaphor
stretched beyond
its capacity to convey
any real meaning

steakout

i happened to catch the last couple of minutes of a cooking program on tvm lastnight. a young-ish man was sitting down at lilly's, in the sun, with the sea behind him, his sparse but somewhat styled hair blowing about in what was presumably a nice sea breeze.
in front of him was a plate with a hunk of overdone meat, blackened in places, which he referred to as an excellent beef steak. the best way to enjoy a beef steak, he said with the lofty certainty that comes with veteran taste-buds such as his, is to accompany it with some rice and chili chicken. and dear readers, it left me feeling quite a bit more horrified than i have felt in recent times.

godhood

if it is an essential feature
of god that He be
a creator, and if
everything (but god) is created
by god, was he god before
he created anything?

aging

it's part of growing up,
i had always thought.
but i was sad when i was
much younger
sad without reason
i am older now.
unhappier.

the butterfly

a flutter of wings
among the early blossoms
of new born spring
heralds the butterfly
out of her cocoon to alight,
upon every flower
in a flash of earthly iridescence

the toad of sultan park

warty little amphibian,
embrasse moi bien
some might find you ugly
yet they dont understand ye
you, with a flick of your tongue
catch the bugs that hum
in the cool twilight air
o toad with thy unblinking stare

through the years

the love we shared through the years,
now time has wrinkled you, made deaf your ears
so my words of love you cannot ever hear
yet you will glimpse it in my tears.

mother

mother, so fair, so sweet.
your eyes tearfully speak,
of love eternal, divine
your memory will last through-out time.

hello

hello dear blog. barren wasteland of my thought. hello readers. it's bin nice seeing u.