Ibrahim S. Amin's Blog: The Plundered Dungeon

I realise it's six months too early for a Mohammed Christmas special. But whenever Pakistan persecutes blasphemers, I feel the urge to share another blasphemous poem -- and this is the most offensive one I've written recently.

Mo-Ho-Ho

Mohammed trudged among the damned
And grumbled, pissed, for hell was crammed
With joyful demons, revelling.
He yelled, "Haram, the shit you sing!
A Christmas carol!?! Where's your pride,
To celebrate the twat who died
Upon his cross? (I hope it hurt
And made his Jewish innards squirt!)
It's bad enough they celebrate
Upon the Earth! I fucking hate
To hear the infidels rejoice,
But here in hell? You have no choice:
Reject the Nazarean scum!
A Christmas party? Fucking dumb!
You sinners should be cursing him!
You demons too, he made you swim
In lakes of lava—" "Actually,"
A teacher chided, "Mo, you see,
It's magma when it's underground..."
Mohammed made a snorting sound.
A fiend of gluttony opined:
"His birthday sees us wined and dined!
Eternal torment's quite the chore;
This Yule I'll eat my weight or more
In turkey, stuffing, brussel sprouts,
And drink a lake or thereabouts!"
A succubus said, "Stealing souls,
Seducing hard to hit my goals,
And stomping sinners' cocks to goo?
I need a little me-time too!
A chance to drink and sing and dance!
Don't mope, you jerk! Give fun a chance!"
The fiends and sinners echoed her,
Infernal prince to larcener.
Mohammed shunned them, traipsed away,
And vowed to ruin Christmas Day.

"But how?" he mused. "I... What's that noise?
That merry jingle? It annoys!
A jolly laugh, a chiming bell?
It's Santa Claus! He's come to hell!"
And sure enough, a sleigh flew past;
Mohammed chased, it dropped at last;
The reindeer landed, clattering,
Their magic hoofbeats scattering
A hundred swirling hellfire sparks,
Evoking triple-headed barks;
The runners sliced and smeared the ash,
And skidded hard to end the dash
In front of Satan's citadel,
The grandest house in all of hell.
"It's Nick!" said Satan, strolling forth,
"My cousin from the frozen north!
You've gained a heap of weight, you slob:
A scarlet sumo-wrestling blob!"
And Santa rolled out from his sleigh
And chuckled, "How's aboot you, eh?
You dipped your nose in fallen snow
Or snorted half a ton of blow?
The abs are nice, I'll give you that...
With heroin you don't get fat!"
They laughed, embraced, exchanging gifts:
A sword for Satan, several fifths
Of moonshine straight from heaven's still;
For Santa's magic sleigh, a grill
That blazed his name in gems and gold
From hell's own mines, their worth untold.
Then Satan beckoned him inside:
"We'll quaff and feast before you ride!"
They vanished through the castle gate;
Mohammed cheered this twist of fate.

He leapt in Santa's magic sleigh
And nudged the sack of gifts away.
"You reindeer better fucking fly..."
He drew his knife. "...or else you die!
I'll cut your throats, halal you up,
And chuck your guts to Satan's pup!"
The reindeer ran and rose and flew,
Inferno opened, let them through.
Mohammed whooped to see the stars;
"This Christmas Eve is mine, kuffaars!"
A festive market teemed below
With mulled wine, artificial snow,
A Christmas tree and webs of lights,
A manger scene and other sights.
Mohammed glowered; "Fuck is this?
That Jewish bastard's birth brings bliss!?!"
He reached in Santa's magic sack
And conjured weapons, howled, "Attack!"
He lobbed jihadist bomber vests,
Explosions shredded limbs and chests.
Mohammed made the reindeer swoop
And swing around the nearest group
Of screaming parents, children too,
He drew a sword and hacked them through
Their necks and sent their heads aflight
And cackled, "Yeah! Too fucking right!
You infidels forgot my way!?!"
He smashed a girl beneath the sleigh.
He soared and found a perfect spot
To land and watch the dying rot:
A church's roof; he kicked the cross.
"Begone, you piece of Christian dross!"
It fell and crushed a little boy;
Mohammed ululated joy.
He turned to fetch the magic sack;
"Jihad is tiring. Need a snack..."

"Mohammed!" came a voice on high;
A golden light bisected sky
And hosts of angels sang a song.
"Did hell not teach you right from wrong?"
And Jesus landed on the roof
And glared; Mohammed sneered, aloof:
"I wondered if you had the balls
To heed the shrieking losers' calls."
"How dare you walk upon the Earth
And slaughter those who praise my birth?
Repent, you fool, or else be smote!"
"Go fuck yourself and fuck a goat!"
So Jesus drew his golden blade,
Said, "Very well. The choice is made."
Mohammed met him, steel on steel,
His slashes made poor Jesus reel.
"I've slain a hundred Jews like you
And raped an equal number too!
In life you preached and gave out fish;
I bet you now begin to wish
You'd lived like me, the warlike way!"
He knocked him back against the sleigh
And Jesus bled and tripped and sprawled.
Mohammed waved his sword and called:
"Behold, you angels, watch his doom
And find his corpse an empty tomb!"
"Mohammed..." Jesus raised his hand.
"Your final chance, you understand?
Repent and lay your sword aside."
"I'll flay your fucking Jewish hide!"
He moved to strike and Jesus roared:
"You're right, I never led a horde!
At feats of arms, I'm not so great...
But I can transubstantiate!"
He turned Mohammed's blood to booze
And staggered up and cried, "You lose!"
Mohammed gurgled, frothed, and fell,
And Jesus sent him back to hell.

The demons had their holiday
And also made Mohammed pay:
They draped his guts around the tree;
He howled, "You're doing blasphemy!"
A succubus castrated him
Upon a merry Christmas whim;
She waved his bits while carolling
And laughed, "Mohammed, join me! Sing!"
He screeched in deepest agony;
She trilled along in harmony.

Muslim fundamentalists and supremacists continue to push for the prohibition of things they deem blasphemous, and persecute and murder those who criticise or mock Mohammed and the Quran or otherwise offend their sensibilities.

The proper response to that behaviour is for us to defy them and blaspheme more. To this end, my new chapbook of blasphemous poems is now out.

You can grab Blasphemy, Banditry, Buraq-ery: A Poetry Chapbook in ebook or paperback at various online stores, several of which are gathered at this universal link:

https://books2read.com/BlasphemyBandi...

Or you can order a copy via your local bookshop (ISBN 9798224173877).



As usual with my chapbooks, the poems vary a lot in form and tone. There are a few long narrative poems, interspersed with shorter ones such as this ovi...

Beneath the Masjid

They raze the temple, lay their stones
And build a masjid, grind the bones
Of ancient gods; their mullah drones:
"A temple? Never here."

His sermons name invaders brave
And celebrate the mosque they gave;
A murder victim's shallow grave.
"No god but Allah here!"

By day, the worship hides the sound;
At night, it whispers underground;
He prays the body won't be found.
"May Allah hide our crime!"

...and this ghazal:

Mohammed

"Allah's sent a message!" said Mohammed.
"Prophet cutbacks! Laid off!" read Mohammed.

Snatching choicest women, claimed as plunder,
Homeward bound to rape them fled Mohammed.

Aisha played with dolls like other children;
Childhood ruined, made to wed Mohammed.

Wives with throbbing bruises curse his verses,
Secretly; they know to dread Mohammed.

Zaynab, Jewish heroine of Khaybar,
Poisoned lamb and then she fed Mohammed.

Muslims claim the Temple Mount, declaring:
"From this place to heaven sped Mohammed!"

"Camel piss will nourish!" claimed the prophet.
Jesus sighed. "Just give them bread, Mohammed."

Booksellers destroy Quranic surplus;
Mobs say, "Kuffar scum! They shred Mohammed!"

Other cultures dream up better heroes;
Muslims kiss the bones of dead Mohammed.

I've been working on more blasphemous poems, and might end up with enough for another chapbook on that theme. This zejel shows what I think of any kind of supposed Islamic reform that's based on "interpretation".

Magic Carpets

Islamic landmines detonate,
Exploding scriptures viscerate;
Reformists claim: "We'll solve it, mate!"

"Interpretation, that's the key!
Jihadists swagger lazily
In minefields, irresponsibly,
And trigger blasts of blood and hate."

"They simply need to reassess;
Our dissonance will fix this mess:
Delusions spun as faithfulness;
We'll show the world Mohammed's great!"

"A passage claims he raped a kid?
And people copy what he did?
An irksome mine, and better hid...
We'll carpet over Aisha's fate!"

"A verse denouncing Jews as thieves?
The word of God, Islam believes;
Another mine our scripture leaves!
We'll lay a carpet, set them straight!"

"Disarm the mines? It can't be done!
Accept Mohammed lied for fun?
That's heresy! The stuff we shun!
I'm sure our rugs will bear the weight..."

Islamic fundamentalists in Iraq have attacked the Swedish embassy to protest against Quran burnings. Or, to be more specific, to protest the fact that Sweden allows people to burn their own copies of the Quran and doesn't instead impose a de facto blasphemy law and curtail their right to free expression.

As always, when fundamentalists try to ban blasphemy, the correct response is for all of us to blaspheme more. Hence this kyrielle.

Their Idol Burns

"An angel spoke its holy words!"
They still believe Mohammed's jape
And tales of magic bomber birds;
The book which let Mohammed rape.

"Its surahs hold morality:
A Jew becomes a pig or ape!
Its verses, our reality."
The book which let Mohammed rape.

"Its ancient edicts rule our lives:
It banned the sweet fermented grape
And said instead to beat our wives!"
The book which let Mohammed rape.

"Respect the Prophet's sacred text!"
They scream with frothing mouths agape,
"Or else we'll slay your children next!"
The book which let Mohammed rape.

And yet Qurans will burn to ash,
Their false religion won't escape
But find its place among the trash;
The book which let Mohammed rape.

Here in the UK, Muslim fundamentalists have been howling for blood and blasphemy laws because a kid scuffed a copy of the Quran at school. As always, the correct response to such fanaticism is for everyone to blaspheme more. Hence this rondeau.

Mohammed Screams

Mohammed screams in hell's domain,
He vomits ayats, blood, and pain,
"An infidel wreaks blasphemy,
He scuffs Qurans and tortures me!
Jihadists, help! I need him slain!"

Another tears Qurans in twain,
The prophet cries, "Jihad!" in vain,
In surahs spawned from agony,
Mohammed screams.

The kuffars shun Islamic reign,
And treat his lies with full disdain,
Ignoring every threat and plea,
They burn his scripture merrily;
Infernos blazing through his brain,
Mohammed screams.

A Persian poetic form (interlocking rubaiyat), to honour the brave Iranian women who've risen up against the Islamic Republic and its fundamentalist thugs.

The Persian Woman

Islamic rulers wield the knife,
They howl, "Immodesty is rife!
What sinful harlots you've become!
Our prophet damns you! Zina! Strife!"

The Persian woman won't succumb,
She burns hijabs, defies the scum,
She plucks a mullah from her hair
And crushes him beneath her thumb.

The others flee before her glare,
She sweeps her hand and swats a pair,
The Persian woman will not kneel,
No mullah tells her what to wear.

The revolution turns its wheel,
The woman's forged from Persian steel,
She plucks Mohammed from her life
And crushes him beneath her heel.

I've once again managed to procrastinate my way to writing a chapbook of poems, when I should have been finishing my interactive novel (which is now over 900,000 words long but probably still requires at least another 100,000).

This one's Fantasy, Mythology, Larceny: A Poetry Chapbook.



It includes high fantasy poems such as this rondine:

The Last Mage

She walks the wastes her spells have made,
She won the war of wizardry,
The plains of ash, her victory,
Her staff was deadlier than blade,
This broken world, the price she paid,
"There must be others, not just me..."
She walks the wastes.

She hears a footstep, "As I prayed!"
She whirls around in ecstasy,
But zombies lurch, life's mockery,
Her fireball blazes; hope decayed,
She walks the wastes.

And there are mythic retellings, including this one about Asteropaeus:

The Forgotten Throw

He wanders Hades' wretched roads,
Among the bands of soldiers slain
Defending many-towered Troy,
And yearns for praise from martial men;
They cheer for other gloried ghosts,
For Hector's final Scaean stand,
And even laud that Paris prick:
"A splendid arrow!" wankers wail.

He barges through and shakes his head,
"A coward's shot, Apollo's aid,
Unworthy prince receives renown,
And better fighters walk without!
Remember this?" He seizes spears,
And hurls a pair with fearsome force,
"My awesome ambidextrousness!"
A couple glance, the rest remain
In sycophantic Paris-praise.

He sighs and trudges all alone
To River Lethe's barren bank;
"Remembering's a thankless thing,
If others don't, then glory's gone,
And every memory's misery..."
He kneels to drink surrender's sip.

A mighty grasp, a hero's hand
Pulls Asteropaeus away;
"No drinking that; let fools forget,
Or cowards moaning dreadful deaths;
You wounded me, your spear brought blood,
That double-handed, cunning cast!"
Achilles sits and, glugging grog,
The heroes speak of martial might
Amid the slosh of clinking cups.

As per the "Larceny" in the title, several of the poems feature thieves and rogues.

The book's available at various online stores:

https://books2read.com/FantasyMythologyLarceny

You can also order the paperback edition via your local bookshop (ISBN 9798215710692).

Islam has some interesting beliefs if you dig down into its theology. One of them is that all the prophets are undead in their graves, with the exception of Jesus (Muslims believe Allah took him up to heaven while he was still alive, and someone else got crucified instead). In theory, that means Mohammed's conscious somewhere, underground. Like a vampire. Which doesn't seem like a particularly fulfilling existence.

In other grave-related theology, the Hadith claims sinners still feel pain in the grave, and you can hear them groan as Allah inflicts punishment upon them. Because the Hadith's rife with antisemitism, it depicts this happening to Jews.

Those beliefs inspired this triolet.

Mohammed's Tomb

Mohammed seethes within his tomb,
He vows to make the living pay,
Imprisoned deep, eternal gloom,
Mohammed seethes within his tomb,
"I'll rise again and bring them doom!
I'll drink the blood of those I slay!"
Mohammed seethes within his tomb,
He vows to make the living pay.

Here in the UK, Muslim fundamentalists have been protesting against a movie called The Lady of Heaven. They consider it blasphemous, because it depicts early Islam and its figures from a Shia perspective (fanatical Sunnis hate Shia Muslims, just as they hate Ahmadi Muslims, Quranists, and other minority sects). Cinema owners have capitulated out of fear of violence, and stopped showing it. Another win for fundamentalism.

Those of us who value free speech and religious freedom should find this unacceptable. And one of the best ways we can fight back is to normalise blasphemy against Mohammed.

To that end, here's a rispetto about Zaynab. According to Islamic legend, she was a Jewish woman whom Mohammed seized as his concubine, after he slaughtered her family. To avenge them, Zaynab cooked him some lamb and poisoned it. Supposedly, the damage from that poison contributed to Mohammed's eventual death years later.

In a just world, everyone would hail her as a heroine.

Courage at Khaybar

She couldn't meet the prophet's eyes,
Her world had blurred in blood and tears,
He groped the slaves and picked his prize,
His clothes still bore her family's smears.

But whispers from another age,
The voice of Yael, Judith's rage,
Emboldened Zaynab, honed her hate,
She opened poison, sealed her fate.

In honour of the season, and inspired by some artist friends who were doing Inktober, Horrortober, and equivalents, I decided I'd give something similar a go and write 31 horror poems, then sling them together as my next chapbook (well, 25 or 31 horror poems, depending on whether you count a crown of sonnets as a single poem or several).

It's now available -- Horrors, Terrors, Errors: A Poetry Chapbook.



The poems vary in horror sub-genre, tone, and form (I even came up with a couple of new forms, because why not?). There's a zejel about cannibalism, a slasher rispetto, a quatern ghost story, a self-contained horror anthology in the form of a crown of sonnets, and various other things. Including this rondeau about a vampire...

The Vampire Drinks

The vampire drinks the blood of kings,
Amasses wealth his long life brings,
He savours throats his fangs have burst,
And golden goblets quench his thirst,
Reclining while fair Sappho sings.

His palace falls, marauders' slings,
For centuries the loss still stings,
Medieval plague-tinged blood is cursed;
The vampire drinks.

The sound of breaking bottles rings,
A tearing backpack holds his things,
He sleeps in alleys, fate reversed,
This smacked-up junkie blood's the worst,
Eternal life's shit, yet he clings;
The vampire drinks.

...and this vaguely Lovecraftian one (fun fact: any poem written in this ballad-style metre can be sung to the Pokemon theme tune, though that may not exactly hit the mood I was going for here).

Home

The ancient city calls me home,
I glimpse it when I sleep,
It gleamed before the rise of Rome,
It drowned beneath the deep.

The seething seas disgorged its might,
The oceans choked and failed,
Its eldritch power won the fight,
They frothed, and groaned, and wailed.

Forgotten temples echo songs,
A language lost to time,
The chanting tongues of long-dead throngs,
They gibber, claw, and rhyme.

My friend has fallen far behind,
The madness gnawed his brain,
He tore his eyes and howled there, blind,
A bullet took his pain.

The cyclopean idol calls,
I walk an empty street,
The city's ancient darkness falls,
Beneath its shroud we'll meet.

If you'd like to check the book out, you can find it at a variety of online stores, including the ones that branch off from this universal-link's landing page:

https://books2read.com/HorrorsTerrors...

You can also order the paperback at your local bookshop (ISBN 9798201698164).

As I say, the poems vary a lot, but expect a fair bit of blood, gore, and sundry atrocities.