-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

introversion forty six


But I understand your aversion to knowledge,
do you understand my aversion to social garbage?

I understand your need to feel loved,
do you understand my need to be loved only by the utterness of a sincerity with burnt bridges? A sincerity that can’t look back, go back or want back?

I understand your need for material to make you better than the person next to you,
do you understand my disdain for material that makes someone feel less than another?

So I guess, in reality, call me as pompous, arrogant, distant as you want, I guess we’re not even.

W.E.

A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.
Silence.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.

W.E.

-spineless

I’m not spineless,
I have an aversion to bullshit.

I’ll cry,
the hot tears,
the ones that have been buried so far inside you,
they can only be as warm as your core,
when,
and only when,
there is no bullshit,
or,
you’ve pierced that part of me,
hurt me to that core.

Otherwise,
you need me spineless.

You need me emotionally detached.

When  your world is upside down with emotions,
and you lose all sense,
Hyper-erratic, out of control,
and running on the wild bonfire of reactionary states,
you need me to rationalise,
to hold my steady hand over yours,
to stop the bleeding,
control your breathing,
and show you the order of things.

And there is order,
always order,
even in chaos,
the order even more so evident.

It’s the reason why chaos can exist.
and I, can swim in both currents.

W.E.

Art: Charcoal and Bone VIII by ~napoleoman

 

again and again

again-and-again
I’m the conversation filler
the space between your wine list,
and your drunken sips,
the gaps in your soul won’t last long,
just befriend me,
find me splayed out before you,
a convenient meadow you can selectively pick from,
when the rustle inside you says,
speak up,
but the coward inside you says,
don’t step out of line.

I’m the opinionated man,
who is palatable because I mince my words,
to sonnets in your ears,
a bashing they may be,
but your fetish of chain and whip,
of bleeding lip,
is stronger than your fear.

I’m gender neutral too,
the bullseye on my back appeals to both,
it’s easy for most to confuse passive with pussy,
relaxed with pushover,
indifferent with naive,
trusting with gullible,
and run with their whims,
through my flesh,
until they muster the courage,
to stand alone.

At that point,
I’m the thing they discard,
like it was them all along,
they sang their own song,
and they were wronged,
it doesn’t take much,
they all run back,
before long.

But by then,
I’m a prison,
it’s gates they can’t pry,
and buried inside them,
they know why.

W.E.