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In a bar, not so far from the Milky Way's star, Stalin sipped vodka, eyeing caviar. Ladies in flapper dresses, gents in top hats, Joe thought, "Politics aside, I'm quite the aristocrat." "My reputation's tarnished, they say I'm severe, But put me in this bar, and I'm the man of the year. Those gulags and purges? A simple faux pas, Like spilling your drink on a femme fatale's bra." He winked at a lady, with legs up to there, She raised an eyebrow, gave a devilish stare. "If only," he mused, "they saw this side of me, The playful, the flirty, the downright carefree." A jazz band played, the saxophone wailed, As Stalin danced, his mustache never failed. To tickle and tease, as he twirled on the floor, Had history got it wrong? Was there more to explore? He whispered to a dame, "Come, let's elope, To a land where there's peace, and endless hope." She giggled and said, "You're quite the charmer, Joe, But remember, it's just for the show." As the night wore on, and the stars did gleam,Stalin awoke, realizing it was all a dream.Yet in that brief moment, of risqué delight,He wondered if history might someday rewrite

If they knew the real me

Ah, the Rose, you are but the Trash Panda of flora's land,A marauder in red, a bandit with thorns in hand.You offer refuge to the scoundrel, in your petals she'll nest,After an evening spent under the CEO's desk, no less. Oh, how you've been Hallmarked, boxed and sold,A symbol of Valentine trashery, a lie that's old.Brutalised by a love that's anything but pure,A societal farce that we're all supposed to endure. You're as artificial as Pamela's assets, or the Gold Coast's gleam,A plastic effigy of love, or so it would seem.You signify society's fakery in matters of the heart,A falsehood in full bloom, a deceptive work of art. So if you claim to love me, heed this verse,Know that of all the flowers, the Rose is the worst.Give me, instead, a Dandelion plucked from the field

The Dandelion

<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">Two crooked paths slithered apart in a jaundiced forest—yellowed leaves, bile-soaked wood— and damn me, cursed with just one soul, I couldn’t split in two, couldn’t slip like mercury down both veins, couldn’t dance the split-legged jig of indecision. So there I was, frozen, stuck like a nail in the eye of the universe, gazing down one road until it twisted away, swallowed by the snarling, tangled undergrowth of this fractured mindscape. Then—madness or clarity—who can tell in such moments of existential vertigo?—I leapt, feet first, into the other, the road less worn, less beaten down by the hammers of a thousand weary feet. It was a ragged, wild thing, grassy, begging for footsteps, a virgin path in a world too eager to crush innocence beneath the heel. But—ha!—isn’t it always the same? Footprints overlap, memory blurs, and soon enough, that too would be a well-trodden way. The morning wore both paths like an indifferent lover’s cloak, untouched by the ruin of choice, untouched by man’s need to carve stories into earth’s flesh. Leaves cradled the ground, waiting to be trampled, waiting for fate to play its cruel hand. Oh, but I, fool of fools, held back, kept one path in the dusty chamber of ‘later,’ a promise to myself wrapped in the rustling silence of inevitability. But who am I kidding? I knew, I "knew" that once you start down one road, the other slips away, a whisper of what could have been, lost in the swirling eddies of time. Paths don’t wait, they don’t circle back. No, they coil forward, devouring themselves in the endless now. And so, I’ll whisper this to the wind in some distant future, a sigh that echoes through the ages: Two roads forked, twisted, danced in that sickly wood, and I—madman, dreamer, drifter—I chose the one less beaten, less scarred by the march of men. And it, oh yes, it has made all the difference… or has it? FSF

Two paths, one fool

In the beginning, you were nothing but a thought,&nbsp;&nbsp;A whisper in the universe’s crowded ear,&nbsp;&nbsp;Fumbling in the void, a puzzle half-bought,&nbsp;&nbsp;While others swam in champagne, you drowned in beer.&nbsp;&nbsp; Your hands grew calloused from grappling with fate,&nbsp;&nbsp;Fingers entwined in the gears of the grind,&nbsp;&nbsp;While they sipped sweet wines, reclining, sedate,&nbsp;&nbsp;You choked on the fumes of the engines you lined.&nbsp;&nbsp; The nights were long, your dreams bedraggled,&nbsp;&nbsp;As shadows danced on the edge of your bed,&nbsp;&nbsp;While others had paths so neatly unravelled,&nbsp;&nbsp;You tripped on your own, bled, and then bled.&nbsp;&nbsp; But now you stand tall, with gold at your feet,&nbsp;&nbsp;The prize in your palm, the spoils of the game,&nbsp;&nbsp;They see your crown, they envy your seat,&nbsp;&nbsp;But never the scars that carved out your name.&nbsp;&nbsp; They see the shine, but not the grind,&nbsp;&nbsp;The roads you paved with bitter sweat,&nbsp;&nbsp;They want the end, not the journey behind,&nbsp;&nbsp;The fire you walked through they quickly forget.&nbsp;&nbsp; For what they crave is the glimmer, the gleam,&nbsp;&nbsp;The tale that is told when the hero's returned,&nbsp;&nbsp;Not the ashes left in the wake of the dream,&nbsp;&nbsp;Or the bridges that smoldered, or the lessons hard-learned.&nbsp;&nbsp; So wear your laurels, though heavy they weigh,&nbsp;&nbsp;Let them gaze with envy, unknowing, unwise,&nbsp;&nbsp;For you earned every inch of your triumph today,&nbsp;&nbsp;In the shadows, the dirt, beneath disinterested skies.&nbsp;&nbsp; Let them covet, let them pine for your place,&nbsp;&nbsp;But know in your heart, as you smile from afar,&nbsp;&nbsp;They see the crown, but they’ll never face&nbsp;&nbsp;The crucible that forged your star.

No one is jealous of the journey

What is it about the Olympics, that strange, glorious parade of the odd and the beautiful, that makes us care so deeply about women's under 58kg weightlifting, a sport we hadn’t known existed until last Tuesday? Handball, with its curious mix of soccer and something else entirely, becomes, for two weeks, the reason I leap from my couch with the enthusiasm of a man possessed. And why do I find myself invested in the form of the Nigerian marathoner, who I’m certain has the legs to go all the way, or suspect that New Zealand, of all places, will walk away with wrestling gold? Is it the magic of the moment, or some ancient spell from the days of gladiators and chariot races, a modern Coliseum wrapped in flags and good intentions? Perhaps it's both—a cocktail of spectacle and spirit, just enough opiate to keep us cheering, our voices hoarse with excitement instead of anger. But whatever it is, whatever alchemy makes me suddenly an expert in canoe slalom or synchronized swimming, I’m hooked, and when the closing ceremony arrives, I’ll be the one asking, “Can we have a third week, please?”

Olympic Fever

Well, Universe, here we are, just you and me, and I’ve got to hand it to you— this job, this daily grind, it keeps the lights on, puts food on the table, and, hell, it even saves me from the endless puzzle of assembling IKEA on my weekends. I guess that’s something to tip my hat to, a small rebellion against the absurd. Fifty-four feels like forty on a good day, if I don’t push too hard, if I move slow and steady in the morning. The years add up, but I keep moving, because what else is there? The body creaks, the mirror lies, but there’s a kind of beauty in that, isn’t there? In knowing, and still choosing to rise. The kids, they’re running wild, making the same foolish moves I did once, and I can’t help but see myself in their chaos. Sorry, Mumma, for what I put you through— now I get it. But there’s a strange comfort in the cycle, in watching them stumble, knowing they’ll stand up again, just like I did. And the friends, we’ve grown older, sure, traded our wild nights for early beds, but there’s a quiet triumph in that, too. We laugh, not just because it’s funny, but because it’s all we can do in the face of time’s relentless march. We made it this far, and there’s a kind of victory in that. My car still runs, faithful as ever, and doesn’t judge when I’m belting out 80s tunes, stopped at a red light, feeling alive, if only for a moment. That moment’s enough, sometimes— a small slice of defiance, a way to spit in the face of the absurd. The cat, my dawn companion, nudges me awake at 5 AM, like he knows something I don’t, something about the day that I’ve yet to figure out. Maybe it’s just hunger, or maybe there’s wisdom in his persistence— a reminder that life goes on, and so must I. I’m thankful for the small things, the snacks that didn’t run out, the couch that holds me when the day is done. And yes, even for the office lighting, that merciful glow that hides the gray, lets me believe, for just a while, that I’ve still got time, still got some fight left in me. So here’s to laughing at the absurdity of it all, to finding meaning where there seems to be none, to waking up each day, knowing it’s all a bit ridiculous, but choosing to live it anyway, with a touch of hope, a dash of defiance, and maybe, just maybe, a reason to smile in the end. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

If they knew the real me

The Dandelion

Two paths, one fool

No one is jealous of the journey

Olympic Fever

A Grateful Defiance