smoke and mirrors

smoke-and-mirrors2
I thought about buying a mirror,
nothing fancy,
old, long and slender,
but reflective.

I don’t mind if the edges are chipped,
or if a crack runs through it,
reminds me of myself.

I remember the hours spent in front of it,
a boxer has to stare at themselves for hours on end,
most people become vain when they do so,
not us,
we grow weary,
we see the ugly,
we see the worst of ourselves,
but we don’t wallow there,
we fix it.

We toil with blood and mucous,
acid filling our bones,
muscles imploding with calcium drop after calcium drop,
sweat, stench and metallic tongues,
what a delight, what a treat.

What, you thought we were just made violent?
The act of violence takes a lot of abuse against yourself,
until you don’t recognise a self,
you stop being human,
and start being just a data bank,
with lightening recollection of information,
relevant to the pinnacle of abuse.

So here I am,
stuck at the dichotomy of awareness and neglect,
wondering,
should I buy that mirror,
or, should I pick it up off the side of the road,
and erect it in my garage,
for my son.

Do I want him staring at himself,
do I want him wondering in and out of self abuse?
How does a father reconcile nurture and punishment,
how does a father,
pass on manhood,
and womanhood,
with the same breath,
with the same clenched fist?

How am I to show him,
how to grasp a man’s throat,
and hold dear life between the vice grip of his claws,
recognising the inches it takes before death,
and knowing the look in a man’s eyes,
when their ego is removed,
so as to release your clutch,
and with those same hands tending to roses,
plucking olives from trees,
covering a seedling with enough soil,
for water, breath and light.

How do I do all these things son,
without you looking back,
to blame me for too little or too much?

How do I teach you,
that the purpose of a mirror,
is to stare at yourself long enough,
to see the ugly,
and fix it.

W.E.

Ambition of love

ambition-of-love
In the recesses of my mind,
I know the mantras,
I know the oft repeated answers,
but that doesn’t make me feel any more  worthy,
worth, such an arbitrary loner,
it hovers in the inter-space of peoples conviction,
bouncing of it’s prison walls,
they keep it there,
a reassurance they can hypnotise themselves into believing,
a comfort they convince themselves,
they’re deserving of receiving.

And here I am, cutting it’s shackles,
unlocking the prison gates,
and leaving it to wander about.

It wants to stay,
and I keep shooing it away.

Entitlement is a delicacy I cannot swallow,
and worth, seems to me a hefty anchor to carry,
who am I to demand it,
who am I to receive it?

The image of my worthlessness,
is lighter, easier to bare,
it’s less work, less care,
worrying about something that’s not there.

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.

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.