Suffer, Write, Repeat

I squeeze my pen once again to grab life by its hand

I shake her hand and ask her “Am I deaf ?”

Life has no answers

I never heard the sound of settling and I never want to hear it

I want to remain a deaf stranger

For there is no home outside the womb; and we’re all strangers to this world


Synapse to synapse to synapse…


I tried to heal your bruises but it turns out that you are my bruise

My little wanderer who never knew her way back

And WHY does it matter if you don’t even remember?

I always ask you and myself the same questions

No one seems to know the answers

No one seems to know anything

Like deaf people singing to each other in the same abyss over and over again

We like to call it “Love”


Synapse to synapse to synapse…


Blaming someone never did any good

It’s not how blame works

Blame eats at you until you crumble in a corner wishing that you were still trapped in your mother’s cave of Nirvana and eternal bliss

I never wanted to escape that cave

they pulled me out and slapped me on the butt to declare my first trauma

The trauma of birth.

The birth of trauma.

The first link in the chain of life:

Suffer, Write, Repeat

Suffer, Write, Repeat

Suffer, Write, Repeat






Never Knew

I never knew where her passion for life stems from

I never knew..

She walks on the river like a Lotus flower

She floats gently, she tastes sour

I watch her from the watchtower

I witness the significance of her existence

Keeping the world in harmony and balance

I never knew how she does it

I never knew..

Eyewitnesses were questioned and couldn’t answer where her passion for life stems from

They never knew

I never knew

I took a bite of the Lotus flower and started to wonder whether she is human or even mortal

Whether she is real or just an illusion

But what is reality?

I never knew..

Last Call

Resting on the pavement –
A cigarette and enough
time to look at a star up high,
the brightest;
a radiant fireball dripping
an omen.

Perhaps I should go into this bar…
This binge started at some other bar, I’m sure.

I’m spinning on the bar stool,
looking around.

Two wine glasses dreaming of eternity;
a couple of tequila shots living carpe diem;
twin beer pints promising never to tell;
and amid the racket
my tears.

The star’s a pale complexion
with vivacious features,
with pronounced charms and grace,
and with a stare,
a stare that could divert Cupid’s arrow

She gets up – supple waist –
And comes my way.
A swarm of pelicans take flight inside of me.
She stands before me.
Venus holds my hand,
opens her mouth…
Nothing comes out and I understand it all.

Stone Carvers

There are vast mountains behind this village

I do not live here

but I’ve been here for 15 years

I’ve been a guest in a deserted house

where most of the rocks have been taken away

by the stone carvers down the street

they say they are building me a brothel there

where I’ll have my own supply of beer barrels and single malt whiskeys

they are carving my story on the stones

but they know nothing about me

the rain is falling down

and I’m safe under this invisible roof

where the existence of a former roof

still lingers around

the rain drops splatter as they hit nothing

and I stay dry

while the stone carvers get drenched around me

taking the last stone away.

The Cramp Apocalypse

Lorka looks at her watch. Its battery died two years ago.

She finds a repair shop, but the repair guy is dead. So, she gets a screwdriver, loosens the screws, and screws them back on. She doesn’t know what type of battery to use. Learned helplessness is killing her slowly.

4 years earlier…

“We have been informed that Arnold Cramp has been elected as the new president. His first decree is that anybody who looks Arab is to be shot on sight. Those who have Arab blood in them will be haunted down as well. All Muslims shall be bombed on sight.”

Lorka turned off the TV, grabbed her suit jacket and left for work. She lived at the Fraternal twin towers – that’s what they were called after Cramp rebuilt them.

There was no traffic, and she could see from the bus window that hundreds of cars were being towed away. Ambulances were parked in front of buildings, loading dead bodies.

Lorka was expecting to get shot…

She worked at one of Cramp’s major companies: The Main Cramp Company.

Cramp spent most of his time in the lobby, going up and down the glittery escalator, waving at his employees who waved back. This happened every five minutes or so, whenever he felt like taking a fun ride.

Lorka reached the company, got off the bus, and heard a faint shot. She turned around to find an agent standing near the window of a dead driver.

She kept walking until she reached the main entrance where she had to pass a card over an electric key system. Her name appeared on the screen: Lorka Bekdach… Welcome back, but don’t get too comfortable.

It was a regular day at work. At lunch break, she went to the cafeteria and had Scallops and Sushi. She ate for free, like always, because she was a valuable employee. Her job was to spit on her hand and readjust Cramp’s hair whenever it looked disheveled. She got paid $5000 a month to do that, and her spit and hand were both insured for $500,000.  When she sat at the table, the afternoon news was on air:

“All Arabs and Arab look-alikes have been eliminated successfully. However, the bombing of Muslims on sight resulted in billions of non-Muslim casualties. We have also been informed that the decree was a world wide one. China is now barely populated, so the government issued a new law: each family has to have at least 10 children. Meanwhile, the entire world declared war on Cramp. The Apocalypse has begun.”

Then, the news anchor was dramatically shot with a shotgun, her brains splattering on the screen. A message appeared after the screen went black : No thanks to you, MOBAWA.

Lorka finished her meal and headed to the ladies room. As she washed her hands, she started wondering why she hadn’t been shot yet. She went to her office and dialed the extension to Cramp’s office. Naturally, the secretary didn’t answer, since she was shot. So Cramp had to answer his secretary’s phone:

“Cramp’s office, how may I help you?”

” Mr. Cramp, I need to have a word with you about your decree.”

“Ah yes, come up. My hair is not looking good.”

Lorka entered his office and walked over to his desk. First, she spat on her hand and fixed his hair. Then, she sat on the chair that  faced his desk.

“Mr. Cramp, how come I haven’t been shot yet?”

“I can’t shoot someone who puts so much spit into fixing my hair. You are a valuable life. Nobody wants your job.”

“Oh, ok.”

His head suddenly fell on the table, blood dripped into an expanding pool of blood. She spat one last time on her hand, and pushed the hair off of his face and went back home.

Back to Now…

Lorka finds a dead, half-decomposed body near the entrance of her apartment. The dead man has a pistol in his right hand. She takes the pistol and shoots herself.


The Void

When it died out, a part of me died too.

Like a cigarette struggling to survive under the rain.

It’s 3:40 am. I’m thinking about where I’ve gotten in life. And you.

Suddenly, my bed is too big. I get lost under the covers.

I miss when we used to get lost together and, by the way, I can still smell coconuts in my bed.

I see you in every corner of my room, playing my guitar, looking through the glass, browsing my book-shelf, listening to my music, sitting on my bed waiting for an embrace or a kiss.. Everywhere.

Your green eyes stare into me, revealing everything. I feel safe, too safe for my own good.

I used to get drunk off your whiskey breath.

When I met you, your first words were “Famous Grouse, no ice please.”

Your lips could murder an army of men. Real men. The type of men that are not afraid to shed a tear.

I lick the birthmark on your neck. You breathe heavily with your whiskey breath. I lust.

You bite my ear and suddenly I’m deaf and I’m blind… Embracing the void

It’s 3:42 am. and I’m embracing the void.

A Performative Tragedy

The curtains opened, and she was hiding backstage.

“Where are you?” The director screamed, the audience laughing in the front.

“I am drinking Jagger shots, you fucking asshole.”

The laughter resumed, louder now. She drained the tiny bottle, straightened her skirt, and stepped out on the stage. The laughter stopped, and a loud sigh was emitted by everybody.

She stood in her spot light, and looked at a  far away spot at the back of the theater, trying to ignore the whistles and lewd comments. There was nothing on the stage but one small, wooden chair with a broken back. She sat there, and her ‘husband’ stepped on stage… After an hour and a half, the audience left without applauding.

She went backstage and took the last Jagger bottle out of her bag. She knocked it back in one go. Her ‘husband’ sneaked behind her and told her: ” I love your outfit… Or, more likely, your lack of an outfit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ha-ha, you are drunk.”

“No, I just had five of those bottles. My tolerance is higher than it used to be.”

“Aha. Well, coming to bed?”

“I need to go back home, you fucking idiot. Get me a cab.”

“… ”

“They didn’t even clap.” She started sobbing and sat on the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about? You just stepped out of the bedroom while our friends were here, and started talking about how communism is the answer to everything. Gary asked you what you’re cooking for thanksgiving…You told him Communism and walked away. Go and take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She was topless, with ripped stockings and a mini skirt. Her make up smudged all over face… She had written communism on her belly, using a red lipstick.