The zip code of nostalgia

The zip code of nostalgia

Take me back,
to when  mud flaps hung off cars with one screw year round,
when waking up in the morning was the default,
because the excitement of a new day was too much to contain yourself in comfort,
besides, squeaky spring bases of beds always sunk you down into discomfort.

Take me back,
to when you’d tip toe to the living room,
to turn on a rotary dial TV,
whose clicks you’d try to muffle with your jumper,
so you could sneak in a cartoon or two,
before you loaded up on a sugar and milk laden breakfast.

Take me back,
to when holding your mother’s hand,
walking to school was not uncool,
but squeezing back and forth was a competition,
of who loved who more.

Take me back,
to classrooms where teachers greeted you with cheer,
with the rank smell of sandwiches in the bin lingering near,
an appetiser to get your work done,
so you were allowed to go out at recess,
and breathe the playground bins instead.

Where football on gravel, bloodied knees and palms,
were signs of a game well played, badges of honour,
where you always had at least one fight per recess,
enough to keep you on your toes knowing,
soon your number might be up to test yourself.

Take me back,
to when a nugget was introduced to the world,
and it wasn’t so laced with MSG,
where kids eating them might get fat, but not ADHD.

How about when report cards were hand written,
and words like conscientious were still written,
and ‘shows potential’,
meant you just warded off into a trade and made money,
whilst your friends remained at school,
still trying to sound out words,
still handing in assignments, hand written.

Take me back,

to where carving on desks was in,

words relating your ongoing suffering,

like ‘I’d rather be dead’,
oh that’s right, you can’t,
because the zip code of nostalgia,
is a number of a place in my head.

W.E.

match made in-between lines

There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.

But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.

W.E.

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.

W.E.

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.

W.E.

“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

don’t touch me


I’ve never been fond of massages.
Perhaps an aversion to being touched.
Where along the path of me,
did I decide that fighting,
would be the best way to ward you off.

Maybe God heard my pleas,
and broadened my shoulders,
thickened my trunks,
squared my jaw,
and expanded my heart.
Gave me speed without warning,
strength in absolutes
and beyond the pale of comprehension.

Maybe he gave me a stare without warmth,
detachment from everyone save myself,
so I wouldn’t need anyone.

I’m comfortable inside,
I know the intricacies of my body,
and how to manipulate them,
yes, that’s it,
that’s why I have no need to be touched.

Conversely,
I’ve met many people who enjoy massages,
and I can’t buy it as leisurely,
nor therapeutic on a medical level,
save for the battered and bruised,
save for the incapable and disadvantaged.

I think their need to be massaged is a need to be touched,
touched because they cannot delve deep inside themselves enough,
to touch or change their own physiology, their own psychology.

For the last month I have endured through injuries I brought upon myself,
for pushing boundaries I’ve erected through  negligence.
I wanted, so badly to ask for help,
to relieve myself,
but for one reason or another, I didn’t.

It doesn’t matter,
it’s gone,
but what it brought with it has remained,
and deepened my rift from humanity.

I’m not afflicted,
perhaps pensive,
and utterly irreconcilable,
perplexed by societal discord,
nay, rather their disconnect,
with themselves,
with the need for absolutes,
with the need for truth.

Perhaps they need to be touched so often,
because it is a recharge of what they lack,
instead of becoming a perpetual, self charging being,
they’re happy to dilute who they are with others,
infection even.

– Wesam El dahabi

digestion

Even breathing will become a sellable commodity soon.
I’ve sat stagnant for far too long,
my lungs have forgotten how to expand,
my heart, how to beat.

My hips complain of rust,
and my back is wailing like the bow of a ship.
It’s time to grow back out of infancy,
I’m happy to crawl before I sprint again.

– morning run reflections

-W.E.

psychologists

It’s business as usual,
as they set their fangs on you,
your cure,
is in your back pocket,
at the bottom of your hand bag.

Your healing, won’t ever come,
but they will manage your numbness,
for a fee,
always a fee.

Show me a psychologist with battered bones,
show me one with a fractured skull,
perhaps lacerations from rape,
with a man’s skin under her nails.

Show me a psychologist,
that hates themselves,
that is afraid to unleash their voice on the world,
because they think it’s too loud,
not loud enough,
too proud,
not proud enough.

Show me a psychologist,
who has used their bare hands to hurt someone,
to avoid hurting themselves,
and then those same hands hurt themselves,
to avoid hurting others……

…..then perhaps,
I will buy into this world of fanciful gasbaggers,
of Pavlov trained dogs of pharmacologists,
slaves of politicians,
sluts and gigolos of share holders.

W.E.

dear grief – 21

It will pass,
I keep telling myself,
but it is an ocean in a goblet,
the wine is sorrow, without vignette.

Incisors,
fine steel having it’s way with the meat of you,
until you become one with it,
and take to your own ruin.

It has no end,
when you are ridden with guilt,
constantly burrowing,
ever the wallowing,
crying over the milk you’ve spilt.

W.E.