the stupor

the-stupor

Look at your feet,
struggling to find cadence,
a balancing act of blame,
and forgiveness.

Won’t you hear my cues,
of devotion and hypocrisy,
as I met out my mettle,
with fervent jealousy.

I puncture  my reality,
so you can see we’re all filled with holes,
so you can stop assuming you’re complete,
that you’re burdened with displaying whole.

There’s no need for all this,
for the bathe in the mud of your thoughts,
know that all this prattling and nonsense,
is a trap, in you’re ego you’re caught.

Drink then a goblet,
a flask or a barrel,
numb out your self,
with sobriety of truth,
knowing it’s your ego that quarrels.

W.E.

infidelity

infideltity
If a bird is rustling away,
in a man’s gutter,
racing to finish it’s nest before the storm,
if a grass blade flicks back dew into the air after being stepped on,
if a car rolls it’s wheel with a nail in it, percussing down the road,
or a child tugs at their mothers dress, unable to speak,
but longing for a suckle,
I hear, see and feel it all, so much at once.

Of the hardest thing to have learned,
is to muffle out this influx of stimuli,
only to relearn how to open it’s floodgates.

I unlearn when ugly is the streaming of happening,
I relearn, when I need to write it all for you to know.

The sight of stringing along a man,
cowardly taking material from him,
in exchange for the faint notion of a proxy security,
is the hardest thing to attempt to un-see,
and yet the most etched image in my mind.

Your gender,
does not give you the right to consume souls.

W.E.

completion

completion
All this time,
you think this wall of me,
is the reflection I seek?

Swollen solitude,
until feet in one place assures you,
you have no place.

There’s nothing as caressing as silence,
when your life has been cavernous with noise,
bottled up rage is louder than any scream vocalised,
and that is why her silence is so appealing.

I despise the man that inflates his flesh,
gorges his appetite until he is inflamed with pus,
with the trickery of trophy women,
loud, lusting and yet longing,
and they both assume,
their flamboyance will carry them,
into the memory of pages,
nay,
into no ones poem.

W.E.

wash to separation

ful

-wash to separation

You smell like longing,
And I’ve never wanted to wear your perfume so much,
But then you linger like clinging,
And I can’t wait to be rid of your touch.

And wash you off,
With abrasive cloth,
Away with your scent,
Remove your gown of sloth.

Pheromone savy,
when your soul is begging,
Odorous stench,
When entitlement abetting.

You wear the pendant,
of a victim-woman,
But all that glitters,
Will dust to tatters,
When I reject your ransom.

Taste then my abandon,
My conviction in non-wanton,
And I serve you my eviction,
From my hearts wagon.

Go you scheming lot,
I was woke to you long ago,
From horizons I see your plot,
I’m not interested in your throes.

W.E.

This flower is called Ful in Arabic, it’s unique to most Arab countries but grows anywhere. It’s known as Biblical Jasmine. Similar to Jasmine but much more heavenly as the name suggests.

You usually find them at the entrance of many Arab homes. It’s traditional to pick them and give them to guests entering and leaving the home. Perfume, is a way to anchor your memory in people’s hearts.

This is the first of the blossom on my little tree.

Revolted

revoltedMy safe space,
my comfort zone,
is too taboo,
so I have to do it alone.

So long as I keep my hyper masculinity on my sleeves,
like bulging biceps or an inflated chest,
I can keep my emotions buried and hidden,
between this fleshen nest.

Men can’t be both,
we’re either too soft,
or too hard,
too together,
or too apart,
fragmented into convenient bits and lots,
able to be filed and sorted into slots,
convenient for comfort,
but let those feelings rot.

Keep them buried,
leave the platform for the meek,
let women herald the stage,
as for men,
leave their emotions only worthy,
for ink on a page.

W.E.

What’s up with that huh?
Can’t a burly bloke walk the lines of poetic prowess,
whilst like a gorilla, size you up, fisticuffs ready and beat his chest?

Futuwa

futuwa

Futuwa is the Muslim concept of putting others before yourself.
It can also be translated into chivalry.

When heard in colloquial circles, chivalry is understood as a noble and gallantry quality that knights used to possess when dealing with maidens and princesses.

But true Futuwa is not attached to self absorbency, nor is it a complete detachment from the self. The self is very much alive and kicking until our last breath. It is just that those who practise Futuwa, hear the self loudly, know it’s hiding spots, know how to draw out the utterness of it’s most base requests and quell it, so as to be of utter service to others instead.

So still, there is an underlying service of the self, indirectly.

By relinquishing the oft call to serve oneself, to put ones needs before others and engage in this myriad of current trending and disastrously ineffective and selfish mantras of putting ‘me’ first, be it in the way of self love, self care, self help, and instead taking the path of servitude to others through choice, through total and conviction filled devotion, one reaps the benefits without them knowing. They illicit indirect self care and very direct appreciation from others, be it manifest and pronounced or temporarily in passing from the receiver of help, albeit, the goal still is not to win appraisal, not to seek the rewards of recognition, but just to do, whatever it is one has to do for the sake of goodness and morality, for empathetic purpose and fulfilment of trust that we are endowed with by God.

The land, people, things, riches all do not belong to us, how can they when WE don’t even belong to us.

I see circles of talk steering people to this empathetic path, but it is not a new concept, just because someone has coined it with a new term or marketable name.

It is, and always will be Futuwa and it is married to Muslim doctrine, most especially Sufi doctrine where it is taught in simple yet very engrossing detail. The sheer and brutal honesty of the way it is taught by their masters does one of two things. It almost always smashes the idols of self worship inside ones self, but it either makes the receiver of the knowledge bow and submit their ego, placing it on to the altar of truth for sacrifice, or it blows their ego up to gigantic proportions in rejection of it. Still, they know the truth inside, it’s just their choice on what to do with it and it’s at that moment right there, where you know if you are self absorbed and selfish or truly selfless.

W.E.

softer

softer
Softer
Haven’t you hardened enough,
haven’t you let the embers of social engineering,
burn your soul into an ashen vapour,
forged the steel of your heart,
engulfed yourself inside yourself until you are not a self,
any more.

What attracts you to have such a square jaw,
and a callused tongue,
I do not ever remember the mother of my mother,
the mother of hers, nor the mothers of my ancients,
ever being so hard.

Woman, bend your mind and break it’s back,
it has traversed you away from all that is pure,
it’s no wonder I scare you so,
I remind you of what you could have been.

W.E.