Exile’s Letter

[ Tranalated by Ezra Pound from the Chinese of Li Po, usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.” ]

To So-kiu of Rakuyo, ancient friend, Chancellor of Gen.
Now I remember that you built me a special tavern
By the south side of the bridge at Ten-shin.
With yellow gold and white jewels, we paid for songs and
And we were drunk for month on month, forgetting the kings
and princes.
Intelligent men came drifting in from the sea and from the west
And with them, and with you especially
There was nothing at cross purpose,
And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of mountain¬
If only they could be of that fellowship,
And we all spoke out our hearts and minds, and without regret.
And then I was sent off to South Wai,
smothered in laurel groves,
And you to the north of Raku-hoku,
Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories in common.
And then, when separation had come to its worst,
We met, and travelled into Sen-jo,
Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting
Into a valley of the thousand bright flowers,
That was the first valley;
And into ten thousand valleys full of voices and pine winds.
And with silver harness and reins of gold,
Out came the East of Kan foreman and his company.
And there came also the “True man” of Shi-yo to meet me, Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ.
In the storied houses of San-ka they gave us more Sennin music,
Many instruments, like the sound of young phrenix broods.
The foreman of Kan-chii, drunk, danced
because his long sleeves wouldn’t keep still
With that music playing,
And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his
And my spirit so high it was all over the heavens,
And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars, or
I had to be off to So, far away over the waters,
You back to your river-bridge.

And your father, who was brave as a leopard,
Was governor in Rei Shu, and put down the barbarian rabble.
And one May he had you send for me,
despite the long distance.
And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t
hard going,
Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts.
And I was still going, late in the year,
in the cutting wind from the North,
And thinking how little you cared for the cost,
and you caring enough to pay it.
And what a reception:
Red jade cups, food well set on a blue jewelled table,
And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning.
And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the
To the dynastic temple, with water about it clear as blue jade,
With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,
With ripples like dragon-scales, going grass green on the water,
Pleasure lasting, with courtezans, going and coming without
With the willow flakes falling like snow,
And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,
And the water, a hundred feet deep, reflecting green eyebrows
— Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,
Gracefully painted
And the girls singing back at each other,
Dancing in transparent brocade,
And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds.
And all this comes to an end.
And is not again to be met with.
I went up to the court for examination,
Tried Yo Yii’s luck, offered the Choyo song,
And got no promotion,
and went back to the East Mountains
And once again, later, we met at the South bridge-head.
And then the crowd broke up, you went north to San palace,
And if you ask how I regret that parting:
It is like the flowers falling at Spring’s end
Confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking,
There is no end of things in the heart. .
I call in the boy,
Have him sit on his knees here
To seal this,
And send it a thousand miles, thinking.



When My Father Dies

I expect an explosion, when my father dies.

Not just the heavy thud of his body hitting the ground,

but a deep, unsettling crack in the sound-waves.

A Concorde’s BANG as it crossed the sound barrier.

It cannot be anything else;

I’ve fantasized about it.

And that is why I am not worried,

when my father dies while I’m far away.

Skirmishes with Desire

His phone rang just before dawn. A warm, soft female voice emerged through the tiny speaker: “Hassan, is that you?” What an irrelevant question, he thought; at this point in my life, this part of the day I am whoever you want me to be.

They clicked.

“So who do you look like”, she asked, “are you tall or short, maybe strong?” Her voice melts through him. He quickly undresses, and lies naked on the bed. Tiny vibrations spread through the nether regions of his body.

But what are we to do with the elephant in the room he asked her; what are we to do with prohibition, with right and wrong? We must accept desire, she says, no doubt while fondling her body. But we must not ever – he thinks in ancitipation of her subconscious thoughts – admit to ourselves that what we are doing is purely to fulfil desire.

“You masturbate”, she asks in a surprised tone, “that is Haram”. She is rescued. Desire is dangerous, she intimates, and what would be more effective at eliminating this danger than a proud, certain shout: Haram! And in an ironic turn, they are no longer in the midst of desire, but debating the religious evidence against masturbation.

The Problem of ‘Ancient Man’ and its Democratic Solution


IT was undoubtedly a discovery of epic proportions. Told and re-told, the stories passed along many generations and by the time they reached my ear assumed an allegorical form abound with adventure, anecdote and humour. By the age of twenty-four I decided it was time to unravel the myth. For a period of twelve months I scoured my memory, delving deep in to every crevasse, uncovering what I needed and, frequently, what I had spent years trying to forget. I read every book that could bring me closer to my goal. I traveled near and far, allowing word of mouth to guide me to willing voices. And finally after my mind was overflowing with the object of my obsession I settled on the banks of the Nile, twenty miles from the Southern temple of Abu Simbel. I spent my days in the shade of the canopy, with nothing to interrupt me but the occasional quack of a passing duck or the tender rustling of palm trees. I wrote without rest for two days and then stopped, spending the next week uncovering the meanings that words, in their attempt to seduce us, hide from us. I was left with a dense but penetrable distillation, and I have decided to share that with you. You will undoubtedly manage to place it in a certain century, a certain land. And it is with regret that I offer you the consolation of context, or the comfort that you feel when you think you know where you are. My story is timeless. It is human.

It began with the discovery of Ancient Man who was living in a vast forest hundreds of miles from any human civilization. He was thirty thousand five hundred and forty six years old. It is perhaps a mystery how he managed to remain undiscovered for eons but unbeknown to him human civilisation has been thriving right outside his world in endless cycles of progression and destruction. His discovery put the whole world at a halt. It was what people call a moment of truth; a collective pause in the consciousness of humanity. Most people welcomed the discovery but the wise few were wary of its consequences.

After the initial phase of shock, everyone had a chance to assess were they stand in relation to this immense discovery and true reactions began to surface. Scientists were divided, each according to their discipline: Physicists were indifferent; they had more important things on their minds. Biologists prepared their test tubes, microscopes and traveled from all corners of the world with ardor rarely seen under a white coat. Anthropologists feigned aloofness; after all they have seen it all. Evolutionists were generally ecstatic and in the daze of their elation they either ran under trains or fell in sewers. Philosophers decided to stay home and debate the ethics of involvement. Do we really want to expose ancient man to our civilization, our sins and our illnesses they asked?

Best sellers began to flourish: Ancient man: The Vital Encounter, Beauty Found the Beast. Rumours began to spread; whispers traveling from ear to ear declaring ancient man’s sexual prowess, his insatiable appetite, his propensity to violence that was infused with gentleness unknown to man. Some began to accuse him of cannibalism; others warned that he might harbour deadly diseases. Gradually the world was divided in to three camps. There were those who campaigned for non-engagement: Ancient man should be protected and allowed to live in his habitat. Others valued integration in to human civilisation. Others simply wanted him exterminated.

In a strange development it was the religious establishment that found a solution for this problem. From the outset the reaction of most religious people was denial. There is no ancient man, they would say, that’s just another conspiracy to undermine us. Only with extensive evidence did they come to accept his existence. But that didn’t help much. Some claimed that ancient man is not human and therefore cannot undermine their religion. Adam was the first man; they would argue fervently, ancient man is just an ape. The more metaphysically generous were certain that ancient man is nothing but Satan, the Devil himself having surfaced from his underground lair. Unable to decide, the rift between the two groups grew deeper; he is only an ape, apes are God’s creation, and we must leave him alone; he must be the devil, kill him and we would banish all evil intentions once and for all. After a short period of fighting amongst themselves, fighting that spilt gallons of blood and an assortment of limbs a truce finally set in.

A magnificent conference was arranged: The Ancient Man Controversy: A Way Forward. Representatives were invited from every corner of the earth, every religion and every science. They unanimously agreed that the problem of ancient man must be a problem of good versus evil. Ancient man must either be an ape, hence good, or he is the Devil, the essence of all evil. And there is only one way, the resolution continued, that we can know. An interview will be arranged with ancient man, our most talented and astute reporter will interview him and the world’s eye will be set at that moment, live. An intricate voting system will be set in place with only two choices: Good or Evil. That, the resolution concludes, is the best way our civilisation can deal with the ancient man problem; through a democratic process.

Over the next few months, the world was busy as a bee hive. The interview was to be broadcast live to every TV set on the planet. Infrastructures were developed to install the voting system in every house. Each household was to conduct, on the day, a mini vote and agree on the final vote they would submit. A team of linguists, doctors, anthropologists and one psychiatrist was sent to Ancient Man’s jungle abode to prepare him for the interview. In two months they managed to teach him basic English, sufficient, at least, to uncover his good and evil intentions. Of course that was not an easy process. Ancient Man’s initial reaction upon arrival of the team could be characterized as violent, but that quickly turned to submission. Thanks to the major advances of our science no physical measures were required; much more subtle methods were used. In any case, after four months, ten days, four hours and eight minutes Ancient Man was ready for the interview.

The reporter who was chosen to conduct the interview was considered by many the best for the job. Tall with broad shoulders, prominent cheek bones, flowing blonde hair and sky blue eyes, he was everything Ancient Man with his prominent forehead, stooping posture, large flat nose, black skin and short, stout stature, wasn’t. There were a few people who considered it unfair to have such a contrast. After all, they would say, what chance does Ancient Man have when contrasted with this Fallen Angel? But the interview went ahead. The world that day was quiet; streets were deserted and shops were closed. All eyes were set on the TV screens and all thumbs on the voting button. I offer you my version of the interview.

FA: Ancient Man, I would like to thank you for allowing the world this invaluable moment. For centuries we have existed. And for centuries we have struggled to understand the nature of the world, indeed the nature of Man himself. I am sure you can understand why the world is so interested in you. You might have the final proof for all our scientific endeavours. You might have the justification for the millions we spend on research, on seemingly trivial matters that we think matter a lot. But more importantly, in you might rest the solution for our moral anguish. What do you have to say to the world?
AM: I, I… I am Ancient Man, yes. I have been here for long, very long time. But I don’t understand what your time is. All I am sure of is that I’ve been there before you.
FA: Now that’s very interesting Ancient Man. If you have no understanding of time how then can you say you’ve been there before us?
AM: I have been there before you. I have been everywhere.
FA: As we feared Ancient Man’s simple grasp of language will make this interview difficult but we must try. Ancient man, many people on this planet believe that all humans are descendants of a man called Adam. More recently, a few believe that we are your descendants. Yes, that many of us are indirectly related to you. What do you have to say about this?
AM: Ancient Man has been here for a very long time. Fruit grows on the trees and animals run in the forest. I eat the fruit and kill the

animals. Do you know that if you rub these two stones against each other you make fire? Then you can cook the animal. It is much better that way.
FA: Yes, yes we call it a barbecue. But what do you know about Adam?
AM: I don’t know Adam. Who is Adam?
FA: God created Adam, he was the first man.
AM: Yes God. You taught me what God is. But I never understand. God does not live in the forest, yet you told me he is in all living things. God does not live in the heaven but you told me his throne is up there. God can never be seen but you told me that some people think he is a man. How can you ask me about Adam if you can’t explain to me what God is?
FA: It doesn’t matter. God, whatever he is, created Adam. Has your father ever told you stories about him?
AM: Father? Yes. He is not here. Father told me how to kill a bear. How to get fish from the lake. He taught me how to make a fire. He told me what fruit is not good for Ancient Man and he told me to bring food to my family.
FA: Ah! Where is your family now?
AM: Family is gone. Family is not here. Killed by a big animal. Animal is also dead.
FA: We can notice how Ancient Man’s answers are mostly irrelevant. He also exhibits significant emotional detachment when talking about the loss of his family members. Ancient Man, are you not sad for losing your family?
AM: Losing? Ancient Man cannot lose. Family gone not lost.
FA: Do you ever feel sad?
AM: You get sad when you lose something? That is what they explained to me. I do not lose. Ancient Man has been here for a very long time. Once, I could not find spear to get a fish from the lake. I made a new one. I get two stones and chip one with the other in to a pointed shape then I tie it to a long branch. Ancient man cannot lose. What is gone I can make again except family.
FA: It is obvious that Ancient Man is focused on the struggle for survival. His complete ignorance of Adam and God probably points to his simple rather than heretic nature. Ancient Man, it is vital for us humans to eat and drink. But when we are no longer hungry and when our thirst is quenched we look for bigger and better things to do. Have you ever thought of leaving this forest?
AM: I have everything I need here. Ancient Man has no enemies. My forest is my land. People who leave are looking for something bigger and better like you said. But why look for something bigger and better if what I want is to find food and water?
FA: But that is not all that matters. The human race was able to evolve and progress because they sought bigger and better things. The whole edifice of civilisation rests on man’s insatiable desire for exploration and novelty.
AM: You are not like Ancient Man. You are strange. Can you kill a bear? Can you make a fire?
FA: I don’t need to. We have become so advanced that we kill animals with out getting any blood on our hands. Food is not a problem. When we get hungry we eat. It is all ready and available. We have time to make Man better.
AM: Better. Better.. Yes they explained that to me as well. Better is when people fight over the same thing, that makes it better. Ancient Man has no need to fight. I fight only when I need food. Nothing can be better.
FA: It seems that this strand of the conversation is not going any where. Let’s talk about something else. Ancient Man, can you tell us about your family?
AM: I had a woman and one child. Woman and child would remain in safe place and I would go in to forest kill for food and get fruit from trees. Woman would cook food on the fire that I make. Every day we would have sex. She would scream and bleed. But then they were killed. They are gone.
FA: We can see the social organization of the family unit. As we would expect the woman had the traditional role of child rearing and cooking. We can also notice a hint of a quite primitive violence towards women. Ancient Man, in our world man and woman are equal – which is a good thing. They both raise children and they both go out to hunt, sorry to work.
AM: You said that you don’t need to search for food. You say that it’s all available and you don’t have to kill. Is that why man and woman can do the same things?
FA: That is, hmmm, quite intelligent of you Ancient Man. We have more time since women and men do not have to hunt or cook any more.
AM: But isn’t that the same thing? Why is it a good thing for man and woman to be equal? If man and woman are equal only because they can find the means for survival without killing animal themselves, doesn’t that mean that some one else is doing the killing for them?
FA: Exactly Ancient Man well said.
AM: So that also means that the people who do the killing are like Ancient Man and every one else is like Ancient Man’s woman including you?
FA: Errrr… well.. It is not that simple. The audience can of course notice Ancient Man’s primitive reasoning capacities. Ancient Man, you are implying that we have only changed the words around? Man for whoever kills animals and Woman for everyone else – man and woman – who does not? That is laughable.
AM: No, you.. don’t know.. you have changed nothing. Your civilisation has just created itself more time and you have used that only to kill and destroy. They taught me that too.
FA: Do not get angry Ancient Man. We have thought that you can help us understand our nature but it seems that you and Us are so different, beyond comparison.
AM: I have been there. Long before you, all of you. You waste too much time, you have too much time. You think about thinking and let others do for you what you should do yourself. You cannot kill with your own hands yet you kill with clean hands. You say better when you mean greed and you say equal when you are just turning words around. You have strange stories about something called God and someone called Adam yet you can’t even understand them or explain them. They are nothing. You have four things you call cameras pointing at my face and you say the whole world is watching. What did you expect me to say or do? I am hungry and I must go.
FA: Ancient Man, wait here. The world will decide your fate. You might have not helped us answer many of the questions we have, but you have demonstrated your primitive, wild nature. And you have said enough to enable the people of this world decide on your fate.

The moment of voting had arrived. Millions of clicks sounded all over the world. Seconds later the central voting-processor received the required information. It was an almost unanimous agreement. Ancient Man is Evil. The execution stand was promptly prepared. The four cameras were relocated to broadcast to the world the final moments of the life of Ancient Man. The Devil as most people were now convinced he was would be exterminated once and for all, banishing with him evil intentions and unwanted thoughts. Celebrations erupted on every corner of the planet; for days on end people spoke of the end of evil, the triumph of good.

Mohammed Abouelleil Rashed


He looks at his foot and mistakes it for the horizon;
a horizontal line where the sun disappears.
I ask him to reconsider, but he resists,
and I resist – the horizon must be better, I say,
only to fall deep in despair.

I can, at least, reach my foot,
feel the jagged edges of my nails,
inhale the stench of journeys past.
What good is the horizon if your feet can’t take you there, I say.
What good is the journey if you can’t make sense of it?

I say, give me calluses on my feet,
and my worn out shoes.
Give me the stench of the journey,
and the certainty of motion.
What good is the horizon if your feet won’t take you there?


If I become a word I’ll insist on being one syllable.
Tired, I am, of the perpetual cleavage of my self and the fight to heal.
When I become a word I’ll make sure I am a verb, no an adjective.
Perhaps I am good at that, adding an extra perspective to my friends.
When I become a word I’ll demand at least four vowels.
Maybe I no longer need to deny my sensitive nature.
When I become a word I want to be always hand written.
Through me, my friends would reveal their true nature.
When I become a word I’ll refuse to feature in books.
Why would I want more than a few close friends?
When I become a word I’ll finally be close to you.
Whoever sets eye on you, would want to describe you with one word: Me.


Cold in bed. Hope.
The moist sun rays breakthrough.
Stale smoke lurking in the room.
The unfinished beer, the cold tea. Time.
Outside the world has risen.
Only.. to fall again. Disappointment.
The madman on the corner of the street.
Contraditction like a sharp arrow, deeply felt.
The madman dressed in green.
Hovering on the spot while the world disappears.
At least he can sleep with a clear conscience.

Adventures of a Fly


How boring can my life get? Food, sex and escaping danger; is there anything else I do? Oh, sorry, I said ‘I’, I shouldn’t be saying such things. What! I said it again, and again. It’s hopeless. But what do you expect? Its true that I am a fly, but I am a fly inside your head. I am the fly you decided to make a fly. And no matter what happens, no matter how advanced your ‘science’ gets I will always be that fly in your head, buzzing around endlessly in that little blob over your shoulders. Anyways, I was flying around searching for a mate – it was the right time for sex, if you know what I mean – when 1000 huge black shapes suddenly appeared, and descending from them 1000 humans or maybe just you. But you know how sad my life is. In a fraction of a second I forgot sex, and stupidly enough forgot danger and approached the 1000 black shapes looking for food. It seems when Skinner proposed his theory of conditioning he didn’t have flies in mind. For we are so hopelessly stupid, so decadently idiotic that even conditioning – the most primitive of all life’s rules that govern behaviour – is too complex for us. Despite being squashed, poisoned, trapped and burned relentlessly over the centuries we have learnt nothing.

Well I was lingering in a corner of that huge black shape, realizing that no food will be found, when the whole world started moving. Again in a fraction of a second I remembered that now is the time to escape danger. You see – I don’t think – it just comes to me. I don’t even care, because even if I did care to know why it all just comes to me I wouldn’t learn anything. I am so stupid. After numerous attempts at bringing back the world I know, I realized that that is no longer possible. Maybe this is the world now – a huge black thing that moves. A world where there are no other flies, no food and no danger to escape. Funny, and I thought my life couldn’t get anymore boring – now it did.

But what is that happening to me? Is it even possible? I feel something stirring, a secret revolt, a rebellion fermenting inside me. In me? I never knew there was an in to me. It’s like I’ve been trapped in a spiders web but the fibers entangling me are slowly dissolving and I am set free.
And an eternal silence.
Fly, fly, what did you die for?
Fly says nothing at all.

April 2005 – Inspired by .. a fly .. that shared my five hour journey through desert and mountain across the Sinai peninsula (I never killed it by the way)

In the warmth of her bed she could sense traces of the previous night. Traces of a love seeking its own fulfillment, yet magically stopping short of that last step, maintaining the everlasting tension that makes them yearn for each other. She carries the memory with her and feels his arms around her slender waist, supporting her with the power of a real embrace, for it only brings forth the power that lies deep within her.

Tales From a Distant Land

Take me away,
Elevate me to the green pastures suspended in the heavens,
Remove the blackthorns embedded in my skin,
Make me light, free as a feather,
Help me break through,
That great barrier,
Burn the curtains, destroy the stage,
Let there be no more actors,
And let us rejoice in the purity of our regained innocence
My downfall was insight. I always knew that I had something extra, or – maybe – that I lacked something vital everyone else possessed. It’s always difficult to know such things, in fact I spent many hours trying to find out whether I was blessed or cursed to possess so much insight, and I never reached an answer. You see, I am a very bitter man, challenge me, show me what I lack, even indirectly, and I feel like a failure. But don’t be mistaken; that doesn’t push me to work harder or change my fate for I’ve lost my drive years ago, it just fills me with hate and anger. But even in the midst of my bitterness I adorned the dizzy heights of insight. From up there I could see everything clearly, beyond the haze of the petty successes and accomplishments in the game you call life. Yes, it is a game, and you only have two options: You can either play the game or see yourself playing the game. And I chose to use my third eye. I chose to watch myself talk, act, eat, play, fuck and all those things that you do. I am an anthropologist, no, a philosopher, perhaps the only one who managed to achieve that elusive reduction, that absolute bracketing of all reality, of all the delusions you construct to make your game possible and bearable. I am above you, all of you, yet I am also nothing.

Insight, a relentless whore that pulls you to her moist insides then expels you, leaving you drowning in emptiness – that was my fetish. I chose to ignore your reality, to learn the rules of the game just to mock you – that was my fetish. You might be thinking by now: What a sick man. Yes I am sick, but only in your eyes, I am sick in your stupid game. But I am braver than all of you. I chose to give up your life. I once lived like you, life was all planned for me, and all I had to do was live it, to learn the algorithms that you employ in your everyday life, to laugh when I should, to cry when it’s appropriate. All I had to do was go from A to B. You provided me with everything I needed, you even gave me an afterlife, you promised me with heaven and when that didn’t work you blinded me with money, you terrorized me with your ads, you made me believe that all I need is what you have to offer. But I escaped your hell, I renounced your cheap thrills, your debased offers, but it wasn’t enough. I still existed inside your dome, inside the very fabric of your ugly reality and I had to get out.

It began as an experiment and became my drug; watching myself every second of the day: waking up in the morning, toasting the bread, spreading the butter, brewing the coffee. And lo! I was free; I became master of your words, of your language. I had the power to make things whatever I wanted them to be. I was no longer trapped by your concepts or even your rules- I was creating my own. I once observed a tree for a whole day, I was sitting next to it feeling its bark, smelling the wood, tasting the leaves, I was experiencing a life that I never knew existed, I was happy. But it all came at a price, creating my own reality – is that even possible?

I once had one foot in the abyss of darkness, barely holding on to the final thread tying me to this life, your life. What choice did I have, where was I to find a foothold? Where were the primary reasons that could halt the infinite regress into doubt? What am I to hold to if I give up your play? But my desire to be free was greater than my fear. I renounced the final chains and lost myself in the well of nothingness with the hope that I might, just might emerge on the other side. For years I lived in fear, I existed as a stranger in a world that lost all meaning, everything that I set my eyes on was something new, untouched, unmediated, pure consciousness. I had nothing to organise my experience, no form to magically bestow upon the world. It was an enormous responsibility. I was reborn, free to create my own reality, my own world. But I felt threatened, by you. You continued to exist in my world, as robots, automatons getting about in a predictable fashion, predictable to an extent that doesn’t permit life, for what is life but a series of spontaneous crystallisations of consciousness? You had the same dreams, fought for the same things, felt the same feelings and thought the same thoughts. But I had no place among you; I ruined the fragile harmony of your act. I was alone, singing my own Libretto, out of tune with everyone yet my voice vibrated with the strings of nature.

In time I re-established my relation with things, I was no longer limited by your classifications and categorisations; my perceptions where immediate and direct. But it wasn’t easy, I had my moments of weakness, and I learned the hard way that I cannot escape you, except by death. You set a decree upon me. I was not allowed to exist unless I pay my dues, unless I suffer for tarnishing your perfect painting. I challenged the whole edifice of your life, of your reason. I brought fear right into the depths of your being, I made you feel how cheap and pointless your life is. I was the sore that ruined the perfection of your common sense and I had to be removed. For years you locked me in your institutions, you drugged me, humiliated me. You didn’t even attempt to bring me back to your life, the life I despised. You just wanted to silence me, to shut up the voice that could topple your flimsy towers of reason, custom, and tradition, towers you erected to prevent yourself from facing the responsibility and might of life in all its glory. And you broke me, you fractured my will, you cut my tongue just to protect yourself and continue living in your filthy holes behind your mighty barriers.

And you succeeded. For years I walked with your chains inside my mind. Life became a distant memory save for the occasional glimpse of a bygone time. I was drained of any vital organising impulse to motivate my existence. And it was then that death dawned upon me as a saviour. Death would protect me from the raids dawning upon me from the depths of my chained soul. Death would relieve me of my impotence in the face of an existence that I was deprived of the power to change. But I wasn’t allowed to die. Your nauseating ‘humanity’ dictated that you save me. Yes. After killing my soul you had to protect my body so I remain another shadow, just like everyone else: A number in the dark. And it was then that I decided to retaliate. I gave you my body to save and protect and I killed whatever remained of myself. I was finally dead and if I returned to write this it was only to remind you that seeing yourself every morning in the mirror is no guarantee that you are alive. As for me I no longer need to talk or think because I know everything.
Mohammed Abo El Leil. April 2006.


A child running in a big field…
Kicking a ball…
Far towards the horizon there are two goal posts..
Every step he takes should bring him closer to his target..
Yet.. The posts only drift farther and farther away..
And he keeps running……

You can either play the game…. or…. See yourself playing the game.
You can also pause, and say to yourself: Fuck the game.
But what are you left with then?


It was a bright summer morning when Carlos found his mother dead in the garage, suffocated by the carbon monoxide fumes. She was slumped in the back seat of the huge Cadillac, the same car that twenty six years ago witnessed the first kiss between her and his father. The windows were closed apart from a narrow creak that let in a plastic hose. Carlos recognized the hose; it belonged to an old vacuum cleaner. He remembered the day she asked him to buy her a new one and gave him one hundred pounds; bribing him by saying he can keep the rest. That was four years ago, he had just graduated from university, and was taking a few months off to adjust his bearings. He was very close to his mother; throughout his life she was the warm cushion that protected him from the sharp blows of life. She was always there, always present and caring. She devoted her life to him and his sister and never wanted anything in return or so he thought. But on that day, as she handed him the hundred pound note he noticed something in her eyes that he never saw before. Instead of the usual tenderness and familiarity he noticed a glint of hate and evil. It was very brief but it was enough to change the way he felt about her for ever. He never disclosed that to her nor did he to any one else. It was his secret and he decided to keep it that way. But Carlos did not know that another secret was brewing inside him, one that he himself would not be aware off until a fateful night, the day before his mother’s death.

The engine was still running, while walking around the side of the car to switch it off he stumbled on to his old bicycle – now rusty with macerated tyres. It was his mother’s gift on his thirteenth birthday. He remembered passing by the neighbour’s daughter, Tasha, that same day and taking her for a ride on his new bicycle across the river and into the nearby woods. He made a deal with her that if she finds a four leaf clover before him she would drive the shiny bike back home. An hour passed and he wasn’t able to find any; defeated he returned to the bike but Tasha was not there. He waited and waited then decided to walk in the direction she took to try and find her….

Carlos switched the engine off then sat down on the dusty floor next to the bike. His mind was already fermenting with memories. He remembered the first time he had sex, he was seventeen at the time. It was a frenzied act with the school slut, and all through it his eyes were shut and he was thinking of Tasha. He would have gone to any lengths to have experienced that moment with her. But what could he have done? He had already settled that matter years ago, precisely a few hours after he received his thirteenth birthday gift from his mother.
As he was walking through the woods looking for her his legs started feeling heavy and his chest tightened. Something was not right, he just knew it. A few minutes later he found her, lifeless, with her clothes torn and blood flowing down her thighs. He had lost the girl he loved. Little did he care to know what happened to her. Nothing mattered, nothing but finding out who was responsible for taking her away from him. And the answer was ready, the blame was placed where it should be and to him it was settled.

A few years later he was to notice the evil glint in his mother’s eyes and deep down that had only one meaning, although he was still not aware of it at the time. Gradually he withdrew from her but maintained a façade that made her rarely notice that he had changed. The years went by and increasingly he found himself unable to see anything in her eyes apart from that flash of brutality and violence. He became convinced that she was an evil person. He started bringing forth new hypotheses about the true nature of that creature that has been acting out all those years, acting out that she loves them and cares for them. He easily found evidence to prove his doubts in his mother’s looks and her behaviour. It had to be her.

It was midday when he felt some movement inside the house. His sister must have returned early from school. How was he going to break the news that their mother is dead? But did he really have to he thought. A slow smile started developing across his face and a thought crossed his mind. Carefully he pulled his mothers body out of the back seat, placed it in the corner and covered it with a heavy sheet. He removed the hose hanging through the front window and coiled it under the car. A weight was off his shoulders, with an immense sense of relief he entered the house determined to complete what he started for only that will set things right.

Khalil Gibran

On Love
“For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. ”
“But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. “
On Marriage
“..But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”