“Cat” — By Ali Makki

One of my short poems, ridiculous ones for that matter. haha!

“Cat” — By Ali Makki

I stood facing the walls, peeing,

A cat passed by, “meow” it said,

I told it off while holding straight my penis.

It kept looking at me, never went away,

“Don’t you feel ashamed you perverted cat?”

The End.


“The Morning Dew” –By Ali Makki

“The Morning Dew” –By Ali Makki


Behold the morning dew,

Drifting on your face,

Falling from trees, falling from grace

Onto the mist of your dreams.


Sing the morning mist,

Carry smiles in peace,

Hold the music dear

A world of brilliance is near.


Break the morning sleep,

Open your arms wide,

Breathe the mist away,

Share the slice of love.



The End


She Melted in the Rain

“She Melted in the Rain” –By Ali Makki


She melted in the rain,

Igniting ring of death,

She seized the wind,

Stealing away my breath.


She melted in the rain,

Steering flagrant desire,

Crushed the face of heaven,

Sweeping away my entire.


She melted in the rain,

Shattering the earth beneath,

Tearing apart the bald planet,

The deadly scythe did seethe



The End


After Dark by Haruki Murakami (First Impression)

“After Dark” — Haruki Murakami”

First Impression


I have enjoyed Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart and its mysterious ending.  I have, however, started reading his novel, After Dark.  So I’m writing my first impression of the novel.  As usual, Haruki Murakami is a mastermind when it comes to creating palpable and enthralling stories of encounters.  In fact, the story is set during the mid-night hours.  It involves haunting dreams, world of savagery, bookish girls and music. Each has his own secret.  Haruki Murakami has created a world in which we would either want to live in or otherwise.  Sometimes we might thank God for being just observers and  that we have no part to play in all of this except feeling sympathy. 

What interested me more is the way the story is told and the perspective in which we, the readers, perceive it.  Haruki uses present simple technique so we can actually live the moment, and observe. The narrator refers to itself  as “we”, which basically makes it like an actual ghost, observing like a camera, but not intervening in the events of the story. It zooms in and out into the lives of characters. It’s “omnipotent”. It’s really a powerful technique.  It’s mesmerizing  filled with metaphysical speculation of the themes of love and exploration as well as the interplay between compassion and self-expressing. Most of the time, the characters would discuss various topics such as death, love, hate and all other existentialist questions.  The book is divided into short chapters and each chapter is an experiment of a different story-telling device.

 I still have a long way to go, but I think I will finish this novel in no time.  It’s sleek and gripping.  It’s easy to read.  So I strongly recommend it if you’re a fan of Murakami’s works.


The Chamber of Teachers

“The Chamber of Teachers” — Ali Makki

 His student was his torturer.  He taught him respect, love, and how to share a loaf of bread with others. He still remembers his remarkable intelligence. If he asked a question, he would raise his right hand and answered quickly. Teaching can be a wonderful experience when you feel you belong to it. He felt he belonged there, but not when he realized that his student was his torturer.  He’s been teaching a monster the whole time, shaping it.

Imagine you’re in a pitch-dark room, where you don’t see a speck of this wretched world for 10 consecutive days. You want to count the days of what left of you. You have no pens or tools to write down your thoughts. Total darkness. You’re just on your own surrounded by silence and void. You don’t even know where you are, why you’re there. What would happen to you if you knew it was one of your students who brought you there?

In a dark room, devoid of light, the teacher heard footsteps getting closer and closer.  A door opened, and light blinded his eyes, and couldn’t see who it was.

“Who are you? What are you going to do to me? Why am I even tied up to this chair?”  He screamed his lungs out.  Still shocked.

Shut the fuck up,” the voice screamed at him. “Or I am going to kill you.”

When he heard the word kill he freaked out.  He wondered how to respond.  I might be killed so I will shut up, he thought.

“When I first laid my eyes on you, I hated you. I hated the way you talked down to us, treated us like worms, unworthy of your attention,” the voice in the void said.

“But who might you be?” the teacher said, biting his teeth. “I don’t know who you are.”

“Of course, you don’t remember. How many have you mocked during your lifetime experience? You don’t remember,” the words were immense. It almost cut down the teacher in half.

“Me, I never mocked anyone,” the teacher answered.  “I’m just a small potato in a wretched school.”

“I will tell you who I am. I’m one of the students you used to mock. You never taught me English well, and always ignored me as I was some kind of shit.”

“Who are you?”

“The one who used to wear glasses, sitting far in the upper right corner of the class, fat and clumsy.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re….”

“Yes, it’s me. I hate to say it, but I will just say it,” the sound a sharp knife echoed, waiting to cut down some flesh. A flesh of a teacher.

“What?” the teacher’s heart was about to explode.

I observed you for 10 days now while you ate earth worms that I’ve been giving to you. You loved them. Don’t think I am evil. I am just…curious.  I want to drive a teacher mad! I want to witness how you will approach death, or for that matter, death would approach you  just like you approached us in class with all your mighty presence.  Your annoying screams, your lost laughter recedes away in the corridors of my empty house. what images are formed in your mind? What words can you utter? I’d like to know, but how?”

“10 days,” the teacher couldn’t believe it, ” and earth worms?” He tried to free himself, but received a hard slap on the face.

“I will tell you how: this knife will slither down your chest,” and so the knife did slither down his chest and the scream of the teacher shook the ground beneath him. “Tell me how?”

After 10 minutes, the student forced some drugs into the consciousness of the teacher.  Tell me how, he insisted. The teacher pooped and vomited.

“I hated you,” the teacher said. “You reminded me of my youth. You stole it. Now I’m just a big lump of turd.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I have dreams, but you all came in the way, so I had to put a stop to it.”

“By looking down on us?”


“Go on…”

“That’s all I have to say you piece of shit.”

So no one knew what happened to the teacher. Some say he’s still being tortured in that chamber.  Some say he’s found a way out and escaped. As for the student. They say he’s duplicated each and every year, a presence, a thorn in teachers’ throats.

The End

“Memoirs of a Madman”

“Memoirs of a Madman”


Ali Makki


I sewed my life as it shouldn’t have been. I deem myself sane, but you might think otherwise. Don’t be so judgmental. I’m more sane than you think you are.  I can meticulously lead you to the world in which I have committed a crime.  In awe I still look upon what I had done.  I still lay in the corner of this pitch- dark room each day.  I succumbed to reality.    Why am I here? You think they forced me into the dark, filthy room? You are entirely off the beam.   I coerced myself into this small room and ordered them to lock me up in here, of course, without any chains.

 Would you mind reading the diary of a mad man?

  Aren’t you a bit disgusted by the fact I am writing this diary and such gentlemen and fair ladies like you are reading it? Or Are you actually enjoying it?

 And you holy men, don’t you feel contempt for the fact I am about to utter profane words against God?

 And you my Supreme King, you that are standing right here in front of me along with the others, looking disdainfully upon me, aren’t you a bit concerned of your status? Of your heavenly position that hath been bestowed upon you?

 Are you all willing to read and listen to the memoirs of a madman?  

Be silent and don’t  dare speak to a madman; I am the authority here. You see, even a madman can write such memoirs with perfect grammatical structures as well…dah.  You are all nodding.  Well, I will tell you my story when I was once sane like you.  In my darkest nightmares, and of all the things I cannot recall, I only remember what God had told to me in that nightmare.  He said, “I am God that has been slaughtered.  Now I exist amongst the ancient ruins, waiting, just to execute my murderer.”

Ha, what was that you were saying my dear Sheik?  I am blasphemous? Oh please, are you going to take seriously the words of a madman? Have you lost your mind, ptfff.  Just listen ok?

 In that nightmare, I was walking in a hazy forest; I could hear the resonance of a piano and violin being played exquisitely.  I followed the path that the sounds were leading me to, like a soldier on a mission, and when I overcame the trials of slaying lions, shooting sparrows (don’t ask where I got the rifle from for it just happened to be within my reach). It was snowing even though it was summer. Everything was white and covered with snow, but the heat was unbearable. I walked and walked and walked until I reached what was like a blue sky where two devils setting on clouds: One was playing the Violin, the other playing the piano and singing. I interrupted them and asked them what were they doing and the one playing the piano whose color was blue answered me, “We’re annoying those who reside in heaven?”

“Why would you do that?”  I asked.

“Because we can,” replied the red devil with the broken horns.

“And pardon me sir, why would your horns be broken?”

“He angered God once by trying to steal the tree of Eden and give to all humans down on earth, and to answer your question, because God can,” replied the blue devil.

What is it your saying my dear sheik?  Raise your voice. I cannot hear thee well.  Ah! What’s wrong with you, can’t someone even have dreams and nightmares anymore?

Anyways, the nightmare ended and I found myself chained in prison where I was being tortured.  I was naked.  I didn’t know how I got there.  All I knew was that I was receiving slaps for free. Slaps can wake you up sometimes to face reality so they’re good, don’t you think my dear King? 

Ha, you’re saying that your voice is unheard?  What good a King are you then? Are you telling me you’re a joke?  Please, don’t be so modest and harsh on yourself my dear King for I would gladly take any slap for the greater good of our beloved kingdom.

I had no food to eat and no one to talk to in prison.  I didn’t even have the time to worship.  I didn’t feel like I belonged there, but why was I there?  I asked.  No clear and logical answer I received except that I was accused of murder. 

Anyways, let me tell you this, my fair ladies and my dear gentlemen, if you take a guitar and went to a barn to play to cows the most beautiful tones ever composed, do you suppose the cows would applaud for your performance?  Of course, you would say no, but by then I will surely think of you as crazy for sometimes it’s good to appreciate someone’s works by being totally silent. This shows that they respect you. 

Ha, what were you saying my dear gentleman? It’s an insult?  I am not comparing you to the cows, no, but I am only making a distinction on how to show respect and learn from cows. That’s all, my dear gentleman, no need to be offended.  And you my fair lady are you telling me this example of mine is improper?  Well, rest assured, I am just a madman, a blabbermouth!

Anyways, I got out of prison after three years.  I spent my days at home. My father died of cancer. My little brother died of cancer as well, and my mother is alone, struggling to keep her pace in life.  I started having severe headaches. I was hearing voices inside telling me to snatch someone’s head.  “I am a peaceful man,” I forced the idea within. And the voices meticulously stated, “No, you’re not.  You’re a madman created for this purpose.”  I tried not to be convinced, but the power was overwhelming. 

“I will be sent to prison again,” I said.

“For God’s sake, you were sent without any proper cause,” said the celestial voice.

“It was for my Kingdom’s sake that I was sent to get slapped.”

Oh, thank you my dear King, I really did say that.  No need to bow your head.

“Do it and you will be sent to a place where there are not slaps, but only you,” The voice insisted.

“Only me, how am I supposed to live alone?”

“To answer your question, you have to figure it out yourself.”

It tried to convince me of how such a mad world needs to be cleansed from good-hearted people who loathes. If you clean one head, you get credit.  It drove me to the edge of my insanity and by then I had to grab a knife, and go out to slit anyone’s throat.  

I just happen to remember that I was telling my mother to force me to enter the dark room and lock me up.  Did I do it?  I don’t know for there were no signs of blood stains on my shirts, only the edge of the knife.  Can you blame me? Can you blame my hands? Or can you blame the knife? 

Oh people, my story is complicated and I don’t remember all what had occurred so pardon me.  I am a madman now, reciting his own trial, and instilling faith in you, but will you show some respect and steer yourself away from this room?

I am a madman in a dark room, in his own place that when trespassed, you trespass the territory of God; that is, madmen are created in God’s image and not you people.  Get out ye King. Get out ye Holy men.  Get out ye men and women and let this crazy man see what he must know tomorrow.  I know not what to do, but only what to know.   I am sorry for not giving you roles in my memoirs people for your voices are unheard and useless.  And happy is this madman before thee and woe to you “sane” men.

The End

Sputnik Sweetheart

Sputnik Sweetheart” By Haruki Murakami


“My Impression”

Another of Haruki Murakami’s masterpieces is Sputnik Sweetheart.  It’s not strange for Haruki to use psychological metaphors and simple narrative devices to create an effect that would instill in the readers some twisted emotions.  The plot is simple, it’s about an aspiring writer, Sumire –which means Violet — who craves to be successful.  Yet she finds it difficult to cope with society, a misfit to say the least. “K”, the narrator is an interesting person beyond any means. Period.  Haruki discusses the theme of loneliness — which is his greatest assets– sexual desire,  and friendship.  Not to mention the love triangle.  It’s interesting.

The flow of the narration is sweet, and enjoyable.  Filled with images, metaphors, dark humors is Haruki’s Sputnik Sweetheart.   I am still half way so I don’t want to talk more about it, and in fact, I am reading it for the second time, but this time in English.  The first was an Arabic translation .  The English one is far more superior.  

Well, Haruki Murakami can be a wanker at times, but him being one is worth it.