Shehab Albalooshi

My work serves as a personal cartography of exile and resistance, written to navigate the 'shattered glass' of a displaced identity. In the spirit of the Beat Generation, I seek to transform a private 'howl of madness' into a rigorous philosophical inquiry against the machinery of thrall. By weaving historical and theological threads together, I strive to move beyond individual suffering toward a shared, universal resilience found in the eternal march of man..

Oak Tree

Here in the hinterland...

Out here, in the land of silence,
I will find myself an oak tree…

Mere Instruments

We are to be reborn as grist; here we become mere instruments.

Just the Same

The face I carved, forsaken though, it has not changed.

The face I carved,
Forgotten though,
It has not changed.

Saturated

I find myself dancing in whirlwinds against the machinery of thrall.

Saturated in city screams
And lurid machine-gun, neon lights

Ballad of the Pig

In Bochum City, the pigs are rarely seen.

In Bochum City,The pigs are rarely seen.You only hear their sordid oinkingOnce or twice during the week.The pigs were told by their mastersThat we are all demonic entities.So at night, you’ll feel the spectre of violenceQuietly patrolling through the streets.

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