Pieces of Perfections

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections

it would go something like this:

  1. your love
  2. your angry tears
  3. the love you are given
  4. every mistake you made
  5. everything you say out loud
  6. the anxiety you feel sometimes
  7. everything you say inside yourself
  8. the piece of you that says yes when you want to say yes
  9. the piece of you that says no when you want to say no
  10. the piece of you that doesn’t say anything in case you hurt someone

(maybe in that order)


if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, and jumble them all up, make some bigger than the other, rename a few pieces when you’re not looking

how unbelievably perfect would you be?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, take you away from your form, look at you naked, no longer clothed in your hopes and dreams

would you remain perfect? or are you posing just for me?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, keep one in a jar beside my bed, one to freshen the clothes in my cupboard, and one to spread the jam on my toast

how grossly imperfect would i be? holding on to you pieces of you?

showing you off and using you to survive?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, i’m sorry. i should never have done it.


Pieces of Perfections

I see you sat there and I love you.

She’s sat there with her hair waving towards the grit between the kitchen tiles.

Her £15 manicure tapping against the marbled worktop.

She says she sees UFOs in the marbled pattern and watches him speak; with passion; about the flat earth.

What she really sees is the faces of ghouls that visit her dreams.

She is his.

She has dirt under her nails and they both know it,

and she wants to not care and she is his.

The grey is starting to fall beside her mouth and she wants to not care. But she is his.

As he speaks about making her the best breakfast ever

The green for her red blemishes has failed to blend into her blush.

There is nothing in the fridge,

and he wants to care but she is his.

The morning puffiness beneath her eyes has grown because he loves it and she is his.

She has tried sleeping less so it can look – puffier – she has tried sleeping more so it can look – puffier – she has tried to sleep restlessly so it can look – puffier.

Her winning result is: restless. Because he looks at her and she is his.

And he will see me sat there and he will love me.

I see you sat there and I love you.

seeking help

my dreams in no particular order:

– my man in blue.
– the hole in my back.
– the skin graft I perform on myself – from my clit to my chin.
– the empty box of Chinese that I would like to fill with my vomit, to see i am made of something. and I am rejecting some things. and I can decide what I need. and what I do not. is that you?
– the wet sock merging with my skin.
– the context: my sister had a dream of giving motivational speeches on beaches. I counter-dreamed. I saw a green monster shitting on every beach she gave a speech. a fight she didn’t know we had.
– the fireflies dying and the horrible feeling of seeing city lights instead.
– the one where your eyes droop towards the dirt.
– the possibility of me being not-all-there.
– the yellows I touch turn grey. or milk coloured. depends on my mood.
– the old boxy tv saying ‘I told you so’ while drinking fizzy orange juice. it doesn’t scare me that a tv would drink juice.
– the new plane I will never attain unless I kill myself. (I’m sorry you had to read that)
– salman rushdie hugging me. this definitely is a bad dream.
– the people missing me. and having ‘the people’ in my vocabulary.
– the missing poster.
– the reward (or just the beginning) of a complete end.

now that the list has been put forward to you all, you may tell me what is a good dream and what is a bad dream. I dream so much that I don’t sleep. I am tired, so very tired. please tell me what is good and what is bad. I would do it myself but I need to get some shut eye. I know it may seem like an optional task but I would like to emphasise that it is necessary and important. I need rest.

seeking help

Paradise Avenue

Paradise Avenue.
The angels argue who will fall
first, and they choose you.
You are quick to laugh it off,
“O Angels, must I fall. Can you not arrange a ride? With all the power God holds, can he not find someone, who with me, could die?”

Amongst the extroverted residue
I see translucent trails of you.

I see you cry by the bins of Abraham’s bakery
you are just a sphere of blue
Without blowing my cover from behind the reed flute
I somehow wish to tell you
for years I’ve watched you grow into
a light above the architectural dispute,
and since a child golden cobbles heat up as you walk beside them on your way to Gabriel’s honey pool,
I see you between God and his first Repute
and since a young age you have had your eyes wishing to dilate,
cocking your head between God and Adam
wishing you could have a love as great.

For heavenly years I have tried to build up the verses to tell you that;
I have fallen in love with watching you and
I have come to always
see you behind me, ahead of myself
I see you above me, I lower myself
my only wish is for you to be brave enough to grow form
so I may hold you and you may have, just as you wished, a love to fall for.

Paradise Avenue


We don’t know where we’re going. We’re by a canal and we innately understand that the city lights won’t let our gravity be defied. We plaster our sight across every other line, across every other line, across every other line.

– We need green.
We catch eyes.

I inwardly apologise if I’ve done this prematurely. Face on; I turn to face you. On the hill, the sky meanders until it is the only thing beside you. There’s a blur of scintillating taxi signs and 5pm fireflies behind you. I can see the line of your profile. You breathe deep and the lines of your chest become obtuse. You breathe in the ripples of the sky. The lines of your silhouette reach its peak and the city lights seep behind it. Right there, in front of my eyes, you breathed in deep; and I witnessed you taking away the disquiet.

– We need blue.                                           We we want each others’ truths.

We’ve waited months for the night to fall and now it is ours. Starting to feel more at ease we talk without taking a breath. We know that with each anecdote that passes by the sundials amends its time. It gift us with more night to watch the stars fight with sonar lights. We’re walking side by side holding onto our own shivers; but we’re not yet close enough. I want you to know I can take away the winter breeze and I need you to know I have never spoken with such wide-eyed devotion about the mundane. I tell you things I’ve never known.

– We need red.

Walking further along the canal we come across a damp dock to rest our backs on. We need to jump over fences to get to it. We came this far. We jump. To make sure we know the night is real we chose a ribbed dock to lay on. Side by side, we catch planes while I dip my feet into the water. You tell me you should never really have your chest uncovered. I take off my coat and cover us both. I dip my head underneath and you follow suit. For that moment we didn’t need the stars. For the first time, under my winter coat, I felt the density of your spectre. The sky becomes impatient and warns us the night is coming to an end. It begins to rain. We don’t want to leave but the rain gets heavier. We run towards a bridge, shivering and wet. I bury myself in your chest and without knowing we protect each other from the heavy rain.The sky is still not happy. Lightning begins to flash and we decide to take shelter under some stairs. Arching our backs slightly, we find ourselves away from the city and finally from the sky. While we wait for the rain to stop falling, you quieten all the noise as we kiss for the first time. The lightening stops and the rain fades. We wait for the noise to come back but the only thing that can be heard is a sheet of film sliced between dusk and dawn melting away.


Can the effect of drugs be described as a mystical experience?

                        The discussion on drugs and its effects is extensive. However, there is a line within that discussion which focuses on certain drugs and whether they induce spiritual effects. In order to start on such a topic it is of upmost importance to discuss and set the basis of the discussion; that being the methodology and the terms which will be used. The definition for ‘mysticism’ and ‘mystical experience’ is riddled with multiplicities and has been a colourful tug of war between scholars and mystics themselves. Focusing on the question, the definition of a ‘mystical experience’ is somewhat much more difficult to define as it is a personal esoteric experience. If we were to personify a mystical experience it would be an introvert who lives within themselves and stutters when being made to make small talk. A mystical experience is not just silent or vague like an introvert would be accused of. Inside there is substance, a science and a serious thinker.[1] For the sake of this misunderstanding, I aim to clearly lay out what my definitions are and how I intend to use them against the discussion of the effect of drugs.

  Continue reading “Can the effect of drugs be described as a mystical experience?”

Can the effect of drugs be described as a mystical experience?

Discuss the importance and reliability of exegesis and hermeneutics in the studies of mysticism.

The reason why this question is of great importance to the study of mysticism in the great traditions is because of the heavy bass which is carried through the song of mysticism: the experiential approach. The experiential approach is marked by most mystics to be the approach that all, including interpreters of texts, should seek out. Exegesis and hermeneutics[1] can be seen as a barrier to experiencing the ‘Real’, however without it mystics would be without wisdom. In order to discuss this question an epistemological and a less reductionist approach will be brought to light. In regards to exegesis and hermeneutics I will be looking at the importance of interpreting the texts of mystical experiences itself and then mystical texts; namely the Torah. Intellectually, the interpreters of mysticism are usually interpreters of the inclusive mystical experience, and the importance of this, or the exaggeration of the importance, will be discussed. The mystics themselves speak of leaving knowledge behind and giving it up in order to experience what has seeped through the holy texts. However, the reason this question will not be a one sided discussion is that in the Hebrew traditions, the esoteric interpretation of the holy texts embodies  mysticism and without exegesis, hermeneutics and the epistemological view of the texts the knowledge to ascertain the mystical would not be found. It could be argued that without the exegesis of such texts, the mystical experiences would not be interpreted as ‘mystical’.

Continue reading “Discuss the importance and reliability of exegesis and hermeneutics in the studies of mysticism.”

Discuss the importance and reliability of exegesis and hermeneutics in the studies of mysticism.