The hue of desperation


Desperation is such an ugly dress,

beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,

gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,

oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,

incisors and nails,

acting all frail,

your ego needs to set sail,

and there you are,

in the thick of men’s hands,

ever on demand,

and all it took,

was a rejection of,

a painting you,

a showing of,

a man,

telling you where you stand.

Be well with your dress,

or take it off,

you’re naked anyway,

why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,

if indeed you want this veil,

if after all, you indeed are frail.

Perhaps the frailty you express,

is a need to undress,

perhaps it’s nothing more,

than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.


The men and women in my family


The men in my family are rugged men,
with hands callused from the poetry they write for the softer women they love.
With hearts that pound like door knocks of the police,
they dance to the beat of their own drums.
We care not for the fragile women who pose with square jaws,
with toxic feminist rhetoric,
ad-nauseum, unoriginal dogma,
that looks down on the tradition of their ancestors.
I’d love to see them with their bright red lipstick,
walk mountain plains,
to fetch a pale of water,
to wring clothes by hand,
knurled knuckles to pomegranate blood red,
in rivers where streams would take you and never surface you again.
I’d like to see how they’d hold the fort as their husbands left with no guarantee of return,
to fight invaders for months on end,
and not make a single complaint.
I can’t wait to see the army of perfectly functional children they raise into men and women of integrity and honour,
and do it with grace after losing just as many in still births or death.
I know one woman, well into her late eighties,
a matriarch of sorts, who’s buried more children than she’s raised and never has an ode belonging to feminists passed her lips, but raise your brow to her if you dare and wait for her palm to remind you of who you really are as it jolts your jaw into place.
If our men are anything, it’s because the women were just as much.
The men in my family are rugged men, real men,
men with unbreakable spirits who bow only to God,
but with hearts of lambs,
they settle easily into their wives caress, because they  are soft like that.
The men in my family all die young,
because their hearts beat  beyond the capacity of normal hearts,
but they leave real women behind.
Women who don’t need false ideologies to show them how to stand up on their own two feet because their men have already embraced them with tenderness of olive branches.
The men in my family, rugged and harsh as they may be,
write poetry with their actions and their women never give them an excuse not to.


you’re pungent with jealousy,
yet perfumed in compassion,
how wonderful a reconciliation.

I’m utterly attracted to the impossibly absent woman,
who doesn’t for a moment flinch from her hearts dissuasion,
who is captured and enamoured when the time is right,
insatiably present,
who can make you long for the womb you were born from,
or bathe you in pangs of separation from it.
I measure men,
by their vulnerabilities,
I measure them by their willingness to mention them.



Sometimes I feel like holding all the women of the world
and asking,

how long will it take to make friends with your body?

It’s never enough,
and when it is,
then you’ll migrate to your face,
when that’s mutilated,
you’ll blame the man you conditioned to accept your new appearance,
the man who made you to do it by his fleeting eyes,
his carnal soul,
fetishly fleshen,
and I wonder,
who’s the victim,
you or him?

-Wesam El dahabi
Feminism is failing you. Take back your womanhood,

feminism is for little girls,

a ploy to keep you as childish as possible for as long as possible.
You can’t claim to own yourself when you paint and fashion yourself just as society has shaped every product for you.
I’m longing to look at my sisters in humanity with their unmasked faces,

in their real skin,

in the shape that God fashioned them in,

without hardened cheeks, and soulless eyes,

with poetry between their teeth and perfumed souls.

But who am I and what do I know,

don’t let a man tell you what to do.

feminist delusions

Whenever I hear a female say such a thing,
I about face.
I know, for a fact, with total surety,
she’s a bad woman.

If you have good in you,
you know there is good in others.
It’s as simple as that.

Dilute it,
cut it,
carve it,
mix it,
contort it
and philosophise,
whichever way you like,
it remains,
as simple as that.


I’m tired of listening to garbage women be cheer leadered on by other garbage women whenever they regurgitate these bland mantras like as if Moses came down from the mountain and revealed divine scripture to her.

Women, perhaps hard done by with a bad man who then take it upon themselves to muster support through social circles by writing off half of humanity.

Guess what?
We’re someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s father. Take your shit attitude and remain with your shit people and leave the goodness to us, we don’t want you in our social, familial, cultural or spiritual circles anyway. Otherwise, grow up, try and develop and become a great person, irrespective of the cards you’ve been dealt.


“VERILY, for all men and women who have surrendered themselves unto God, and all believing men and believing women, and all truly devout men and truly devout women, and all men and women who are true to their word, and all men and women who are patient in adversity, and all men and women who humble themselves [before God], and all men and women who give in charity, and all self-denying men and self-denying women, 38  and all men and women who are mindful of their chastity, and all men and women who remember God unceasingly: for [all of] them has God readied forgiveness of sins and a mighty reward”

Quran 33:35

*38 Guarding ones private parts

To be clear, the quote was from the song ‘You should love, what you know of me’ -Johnny Bang Reilly

not feminism


not feminism

once upon a time
newborn girls were buried alive
out of shame

the world hasn’t changed
now we have no shame
we just extend the funeral procession
and women are walking dead


Prior to Islam being established amongst the Arabs, Pagans, Christians, Jews and the like of the era would bury their female newborn alive.

A social norm, a collectively accepted and unquestioned custom.
At the outset of Islam, it abolished many social and cultural traits that were deemed inhumane, unjust and unlawful according to divine laws as prior espoused or by new dictates.

Women were to be offered rights the world had not seen or heard of,  seen in the light that they should be seen, the mothers of humanity, the only womb carriers, the only child bearers, in essence, the only warmth of mercy that can extend love appropriately to suckle humankind into social and spiritual cohesion.

This wave of beauty wouldn’t last long before men, being men do what they do and exhorting their social, political and physical dominance, interpreting texts and mandates as they see fit to suit their agendas and forcing a social oppression on the development of women.

Occasionally, a woman of grandeur would slip between the cracks of normality and society would see brilliance, mercy, beauty, kindness that was missing. Like a bosom engorging once again with milk that we all need to drink from after such a long pang of thirst from the origin of where we came from.

Such a woman, whether by force, or by the inability of the world to counter such beauty and mercy or whether it be by the utter mercy God may have protected her with comes and goes but they are looked at with marvel and disbelief. Heralded as saviours with utter ignorance of the perpetual miracles that take place daily in pregnancy, child birth and rearing amongst other meaningful and important things, albeit these things alone, placing her far above the achievements of men.

We now have male created industries of band aid solutions, with labels and slots conveniently appropriated, but otherwise monitored and manicured by men. Industries misleading women into a false ideal that they need to be represented by a silly label to be someone.

Well, it drains me, it literally anchors the soul of my existence to drudgery to have to constantly explain to both males and females alike, that not a soul possesses the right to oppress another soul, irrespective of gender.

In the context of the above, males reserve no right to hold women hostage, thus extending this pre-islamic cultural barbarity, spreading it beyond the pales of just ignorant Arab circles to the Colosseum of human fibre, to every nationality, religion and culture. Males, not religions, males, forcing their way on to women, entrenching our social narrative to appear on the surface with such labels as being pro-women, but in reality, still a cover of soil ready in their hands, to bury women’s voices, their opinions, their actions and their souls under the ground of our ignorance.

As such, my daughter does whatever my sons do. She will have to choose her path when I die and I would rather her raising her hands in litanies of hope for forgiveness and mercy for her father than calling upon Gods curse for the stifling I may have incurred.

I want no part of a male narrative ready to spit back into the womb that bore them. Ingrates, nothing more! There is nothing uglier than a man who will not acknowledge truth except on equal measure a woman that reinforces it or takes his words to be by default superior.

Superiority is through truth and action not gender and as Moses implored his Lord, I pray it manifests even if on my enemies tongue. I care not for the source as long as it is made manifest, truth after all is genderless, ironically why one of the meanings of the word Kufr is ‘covering’, in this context, a covering over truth.

It is knowing well in the pits of you the answer but choosing to intellectualise or philosophise against it for the establishment of nothing more than egotistical dominance.


return to foetus, always

return to foetus, always

there’s no shower long enough
no cloud soft enough
nor cocoon small enough
to keep you together sometimes

sometimes society is responsible for for the fabric of us
other times, we’re responsible for the fabric of you
were it not for our subtle reminders to you
through art, poetry and music
what a wretched life you’d posses.

there has to be people at the helm
soldiers of the outer
protecting soldiers of the inner
soldiers of body
protecting soldiers of soul
soldiers of blood and sinew
protecting soldiers of poetry and heart
all of them, soldiers of humanity

men and women
birthing warriors to live on
we need these anchors
to remind us of the bottomless oceans we’ve become
deep, dark, vast but empty
there’s no life in us
ever as blue as beauty can be painted
as a pill can claim you
as lifeless and cold as death

how do we return to foetus
if we’re cutting ourselves from the womb of mother nature
how do we bathe in its warm waters
if they won’t even allow our mother
to birth us the way she will come to know how
men, teaching women, what to do, when to do it,
women, quickly taking orders wanting to wear their pants
like they know more

if i have any advice to give, it is, women of the earth,
do not aspire to be men, be who you are,
you already have an advantage
keep your wombs warm with love inherent in you
if any of us will return to humanity
it will be for a longing pang for the
togetherness of your womb
the beat of your heart
the pulse of your vein


Same photography as yesterday, by David Uzochukwu


dark movies inception dreaming 1920x798 wallpaper_www.wall321.com_48

Stuck in a conundrum,
Dreaming about dreaming,
Waking from a dream inside a dream,
Only to realise, it’s all still going on.
Even waking up completely,
Leaves you utterly destroyed for weeks,
As you long to record details,
Your mind has erased.

Now all you want to do is dream one more time.

No one wants to know you,
Unless knowing you is a sport they can play,
Unless you match the accessories of their outfit.

So I learned to acclimatise to people’s temperaments,
Shed skin to accommodate seasons,
Shave my head for the same reason a woman cuts hers,
For change,
To get over an ex,
To hate being the image a former partner remembers,
To subconsciously be rid of past identification,
Or belonging to a retina image-memory,
Etched into someone’s idea of you.

I’m high fashion once people realise the stone I’m made from,
Cryptonite can be easily mistaken for emeralds.
My head has been shaved for fifteen years,
I can’t go back to that dream,
Scalping is not my thing,
And I’m not into fashion.

Destroy the evidence.

Let’s find them shall we?
Those pieces of spine,
Those fragments of mind,
Scattered memories,
Left behind.

Let’s tie them shall we?
I have but this twine,
This root of thyme,
The puzzles,
Of perpetuated crimes.

Let’s unite them shall we?
Here, use this vine,
Together tightly, bind,
Gather them,
Whatever you find.

Let burn them shall we?
Light the fire of time,
Kill off me, I, and mine,
Leave no trace,
No sign.

And she continues to be a stand up woman,
For you,She hides your sins,
She veils your evil,
She presents you on a pedestal to the world,
As a King,
She, your servant.
Blindly, all this time,
You fail to see she rules over you.
One turn of her glance away from you,
You’d be reduced to rubble,
Who would prop you up?
Nay, she is the Queen and you, but a slave.

Humanity’s saviour



The cradle of all humanity is the womb
It’s always been the womb.

Arabic word for womb
Derived from Rahma, the Arabic word for mercy.

It is no mistake that these words are intertwined and connected, for the mercy of humanity lays in the belly of mothers. No matter how pardoning a King is, no matter how subtle a father can be, how gentle a brother can protect or how loving a husband is, they can never experience the mercy necessary to participate in child bearing.

Why then are we looking at males, more specifically the immature model of males through false patriarchy to solve the worlds affairs?

We need to get out from the belly of the beast which men have created to the mercy of the womb which women inherited if we want any hope at returning to humanity.