illiterate

 

Delusional critics,
self appointed,
fixated,
in the egocentricity of being above others,
by the mere fact they can string a sentence together,
lured by the fetishes of their ever rattling minds,
that what they decipher is actually a cipher of intelligence,
so like an excavator,
indiscriminate in it’s destruction,
they will not relent,
nor admit,
drop to their knees and submit,
that what they know,
is minuscule.
The more they ‘learn’,
the further from comprehension they become,
instead, as the great sage said,
‘The more I learned, the more ignorant I became.’
There is no shame in admitting,
after learning, after being enlightened,
of just how ignorant you were.
Life then,
is nothing more than learning to undo the superiority of knowledge,
we’re conditioned to believe,
makes us better than others.
True knowledge is not being able to find fault in everything you read, hear or see,
the truest knowledge is finding fault within and being consumed with gaining more knowledge to unveil even more of your faults.
An impossible obsession, reserved only for the humble and meek,
unconcerned with the glory and praise of the world.

Wesam El dahabi

when you’re enough for yourself

I’ve tried my hand at amicability,
but I much prefer loneliness.

The dispute you have with yourself,
between wearing a mask for the sake of social harmony,
or keeping social harmony,
by removing yourself to loneliness.

I’ll take the later thanks.

Wesam El dahabi

Unliking yourself

What do you find at the end of it all,
at cutting out bits,
attaching more,
trial fits,
Frankenstein gore.

Alot of loneliness,
inside loneliness,
inside an outer display of comical amicability.

Buoyant temporality,
until the newer version of you,
drags the older down,
to stand on his shoulders for a breath.

Fucken savages we are.

W.E.

when your armour is made from egg shells.

I work with a man who doesn’t know how to leak,
a suffering man,
boy, rather.

I feel like showing him what his hurt looks like,
perhaps others will feel less pain around him,
he equates strength with dominance,
he needs to learn how to leak,
and let grief be his poetry.

He doesn’t respond to death,
because he makes excuses for life.
he likes to shoot animals,
call it sport,
more dominance,
beating defenceless things keeps him alive.

I play dead all the time,
he doesn’t like that he can’t kill me,
my indifference,
slays him,
his him-ness is lonelier than I am.

W.E.

Funny enough, I’m kinder to him than anyone else at work.

-unveiling

​-unveiling
An aversion to being known,

not unlike a lure to being unseen,

neither here, nor there,

not even in between.
Your eyes fail you,

if you can’t close them and see all that I am,

your heart betrays you,

if you’ve settled on my confines, your hologram.
I’m not yours, his,

hers nor mine,

I don’t belong here,

there, nor in any time.
Hybrid, morbid,

acid and livid,

alive, breathing,

spirited and vivid.
Most people are not brutal enough,

to punish themselves to the point of harm,

a sadism of pain,

to appreciate how alive they are.
The most honest experience I’ve tasted,

is that dishonesty seeps from my marrow,

perhaps here,

there is hope yet,

perhaps in this pool of maim,

this wound licking orgy,

is where I can relish in narcissistic pride,

mortality clenched between jaw and jugular,

that I have something left that resembles a sensitive heart.
And it’s precisely that sensitivity,

that keeps me from you,

worlds apart, worlds apart.
I have no interest in lending,

a fibre, nor borrowed time,

regrets have become,

an easily avoidable past time.
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.

Anxiety, the liar


It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.

-Wesam El dahabi