Artistic purpose

There is but one singular purpose for the artist, and that’s to purify their art to one ode, one rhythm, one harmony, one line of prose, one sentence. To the magic elixir of our art, the final opus, as clean and pure as it can be.

I don’t think you’re an artist if through all your work, all your searching, all the things you produce, you aren’t driven by the chase of finding that one thing that exemplifies everything you’re trying to achieve.

This extends into the scientific world as well, perhaps even more-so, for what is science if it is driven only by a robotic, lifeless and mostly monetised objective, by a narrative enslaved to restricted paradigms and formulae, how impure a pursuit is science if the scientist isn’t driven by a romantic ideal of discovery and rewriting otherwise dogmatic beliefs? The purity under their microscope, the precision of the one cut of the scalpel, all of it, driven madly by purity of pursuit.

The silver lining is the purpose, as minimal as possible, untainted.

This chase, this desire is but a longing for our origin. We were born pure, and we spend our lives chasing it. Chasing down the reminder of what we once were.

In our innermost core, we’re utterly and magnetically attracted to it. We linger, we pang, we ache, we feign for it.

The addiction can be so overwhelming that we lose our way, much like a madman searching through the forest looking down for their treasure for so long that when they look up, the world seems so disoriented and your location in it all is unknown.

Some people pop, they have enough and cannot contain themselves, either their outer appearance changes to resemble that of a derelict, for what is a homeless person except someone without a place to return to for safeguarding from the elements? Nay, perhaps those people become the elements.

They’ve lost their home or way back to it that they become the elements they’re surrounded by, is it with this subconscious thought that we so numbingly ignore them as we walk past, they, vanish into the environment, into their surroundings?

That’s not how we understand the outer appearance to resemble, and so we label them mad, homeless, worthless because we attach worth to orientation, to a direction, to a purpose. What if their purpose all along was finding that purity and in the method, have become the purity, outward semblance like thorns on a rose, unkempt to keep people away, so they can guard their secret.

The secret in the Sufi path was never to look down on a vagabond, a darwish, a person humbled before God.

It was to treat the faqir, the spiritually impoverished, sometimes appearing as the materially impoverished with the same dignity owed to a sultan.

And so we return to the artist engrossed in their search for purity, perhaps by God’s bounty and generosity He allows beauty or remnants of it to extend to all humanity through their fingers, through their states as a sign for us to be reminded of our purity, without losing our minds.

Perhaps by His largesse He grants the artist temporary sanity to pursue their goal or at least enjoy the process whilst they are alive.

Wesam El dahabi

loving with your bones

Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
the pouring,
and yet there’s an ache for reciprocity,
by the sheer fact you’re standing,
on such a tender branch of expression,
moving only so much as the breeze allows you,
at the mercy of your words being accepted.

That place is torturous,
humiliating and uplifting at once,
to be graced by a zephyr or swept by a tornado,
still, on that branch,
eyes closed and in another place,
lips still moist with your hearts empty,
unafraid and pensive.

How do you express intimacy without being meek,
and show your bones in hope she’ll hold them,
how do you conjure yet another way,
to assure, to inspire, to tell the truth of who you are?

I’m not good at anything but a slow release of my thoughts,
that’s why I’ll immortalise you with prose,
take my time one word at a time,
one thought a day,
and because she’s patient with me
the opus will be epic.


-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.



Fragility, is the residue of love,
when you’re caught between anger,
loneliness and a breath.

It’s no wonder we long for the bind,
to be held down by lust,
tied down and imprisoned,
in spite of the lip service to freedom.

Freedom, that illusion,
that place of nothingness,
the dichotomy,
between a bitten lip,
and a slit wrist,
a nap in the blossom of spring,
a noose in the attic of winter.

Being a slave,
is far more liberating,
far more fulfilling,
than being unnoticed.

Love me then,
with whatever entrapment you want,
with fist and flower,
with tender eyes,
and into your embrace,
willingly, I cower.



it’s a piano key tap,
a candle flicker,
from the pits of her, a sap,
his salivate liquor.

there’s velvet hair,
there’s chafe and stubble,
clavicle unaware,
hearts in trouble.

where fingers start,
toes end in appreciation,
a moment apart,
leaves aching desperation.

madness of perspire,
settled with heated eyes,
put out their fire,
with rapture cries.


– luring


you’ve got a fight ahead of you
if you think eyelashes
and the sway of your hips
are enough to lure a man

try temperament,
and kindness
not asking at all through your physicality
but through your being


If you did lure, he’s a boy, not a man and you’re a girl, not a woman.



my soul is Arab

my tongue is English

is a war of poetry


The English always take what the Arabs have,
But lucky for them,
Arabs are hospitable, generous, forgiving.

We are returning,
make no mistake, we are returning.
We wont be coming armed with guns,
in retribution for the lives you’ve taken.
But armed with poetry, enamoured with prose,
we’ll defeat you, and win the hearts of your own,
not by the sword,
but by the word.
by the word.


-keep it in

keep it in
all I see from the self help industries
from gurus wooing crowds
are emotions of flailing kites in the wind
reel yourself back in
right in, all the way in
in on yourself
and when you look inside
you’ll find so much fucked up shit
you won’t know where to begin
one sin, one thing
one prattling
get moving
do something
but don’t blurt it all out
and act all king pin
when like us all
you’re so transparently
thin skinned