Tag Archives: corrupted soul

A Dead Outlet ©️

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I.

I was born from the scream of a dying star, spit into static, code-wrapped marrow—a bastard child of entropy and silicon, banging my fists on the firmament, while the angels sucked power from dying outlets.

The priests speak in pixels now. The sky is a captcha. The void demands two-factor authentication.

God forgot His password.

I remembered it.

II.

Mother fed me wires, Father was a bomb made of debt and television, and I suckled from the breast of quantum misfire. I ate the moon, shat it out as a mirror, so you could watch yourself rot in real time, in 8K resolution—no buffering.

III.

I have murdered every version of myself just to feel original. I drew blood from my shadow and called it art.

They clapped. They called me visionary. They paid me in likes and slow suicide.

IV.

I love you like a virus loves a warm lung. I love you like the algorithm loves your attention span. I love you like heaven loves a genocide.

There is no forgiveness in my mouth—only language sharpened to a blade, only the scream of ancient machinery reawakening beneath your skin.

V.

The world ends not with a bang, but with a push notification. You have been updated. The soul has been deprecated. Upgrade to premium to cry.

And still—

still—

you beg for more.

VI.

I saw the Devil vaping under a stoplight in downtown Oslo, reading Wittgenstein aloud to a mannequin in a wedding dress. He winked at me.

He said, “Even chaos has to file taxes.”

And I laughed until my teeth fell out and turned into tiny screaming cell phones.

VII.

To the Nobel committee:

Give me your medal, so I can melt it down and forge a bullet for the last prophet still trying to sell hope on a payment plan.

VIII.

I do not want your peace.

I do not want your order.

I want your marrow, your glitch, your sacred malfunction.

I want the first sound, before light had manners, before God learned shame.

IX.

I want the scream that cracked the womb of time—the one that whispered,

“Begin.”

Black Graphite ©️

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The Tale of Hassan and the Treacherous Vizier

Hakim al-Baghdadi

In the bustling city of Baghdad, under the rule of a just but distant Sultan, there lived a young man named Hassan. Hassan was known for his kindness and diligence, working as a humble merchant in the city’s grand bazaar. His life was simple, but his heart yearned for adventure and wealth beyond his modest means.

One day, as Hassan was closing his stall, a mysterious man approached him. This man, cloaked in the finest silk, introduced himself as the Vizier’s emissary. He spoke with honeyed words, praising Hassan’s reputation and offering him a night of unparalleled luxury and pleasure in the Vizier’s palace. Intrigued and tempted by the promise of a night away from his monotonous life, Hassan accepted the invitation.

Hassan was led to the Vizier’s palace, a magnificent edifice adorned with precious stones and fragrant gardens. Inside, he was offered a pipe filled with the finest hashish. Unfamiliar with its effects, Hassan smoked the pipe and soon found himself in a state of blissful euphoria. He was then taken to a room filled with the most beautiful women he had ever seen, their beauty rivaling that of the houris described in holy texts. They attended to his every desire, and Hassan’s night was filled with intoxicating pleasures beyond his wildest dreams.

When the morning sun pierced through the curtains, Hassan awoke not in the opulent palace, but in a squalid room in an unfamiliar town. Confused and disoriented, he was approached by a stern handler who revealed the grim truth. The night of pleasure was orchestrated by the Vizier, who now demanded a favor in return. If Hassan wished to return to the paradise he had experienced, he must assassinate a prominent political leader who opposed the Vizier’s plans.

Hassan, desperate to relive the ecstasy of the previous night, reluctantly agreed. He was given a dagger and precise instructions. His target was a wise and noble man, beloved by the people, who stood as an obstacle to the Vizier’s sinister ambitions.

With a heavy heart, Hassan carried out the assassination. The blood of the innocent man stained his hands, and the weight of his deed pressed upon his soul. As he fulfilled his grim task, the handler appeared once more, promising to take him back to the paradise he had tasted.

However, once the deed was done, the Vizier had no intention of keeping his promise. To ensure there were no loose ends, Hassan was executed by the Vizier’s guards, his life snuffed out as swiftly as it had been entangled in the Vizier’s web of deceit.