introversion – seventy eight

No one gets to go there,
these walls are not scalable, not saleable.

You can’t claw your way in,
you cannot pierce past this skin,

this pilgrimage is reserved for the hermit,
for the inwardly inward, for the withdrawn & within.

I’ve seen your eyes pan,
I’ve seen your desperation for man,
and this whole time you missed the essence of his span.

Wretched carnality, devoid of spirituality,
you’d eat my flesh and spit it out without so much a thought.

I’ve squandered women like you and all their triviality,
I’ve toyed with their insincerity like a sport.

The stench of the ulterior motived precedes them,
their actions are seen in advance by men, real men.

Foresight and experienced in the sinisterism of  hucksters,
gypsy travellers settling on whatever soul lines their sack,
they’ll sell you a love story and break your back.

Burning at the stake is too swift and merciful a punishment,
it’s far easier to immortalise them with rhyme and meter,
and leave them to their ways in banishment.

They ask, “Where does it hurt?”
The reply comes gushing, “the place you couldn’t reach”.

W.E.

The hue of desperation

 

Desperation is such an ugly dress,

beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,

gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,

oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,

incisors and nails,

acting all frail,

your ego needs to set sail,

and there you are,

in the thick of men’s hands,

ever on demand,

and all it took,

was a rejection of,

a painting you,

a showing of,

a man,

telling you where you stand.

Be well with your dress,

or take it off,

you’re naked anyway,

why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,

if indeed you want this veil,

if after all, you indeed are frail.

Perhaps the frailty you express,

is a need to undress,

perhaps it’s nothing more,

than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.

W.E.

Vulnerability

 

In an ideal world, if we weren’t so impatient, if we slowed down to at least be able to appreciate the lather of people as they come to maturation,
perhaps we’d equally be as mature to accept their vulnerability.

HOWEVER, we’re not mature or developed enough.
It’s sexy, it’s trendy, it makes for good conversation fodder, but the reality is that dealing with a fuck up and loving them in all their insecurities, their vileness, and more so than loving them, but nailing an idea of loyalty into their soul, that you’re always going to be around is not something you find that easily.

In a world where flickering between connection and disconnection has never been easier, vulnerability remains taboo and I won’t believe anyone who says otherwise.

I’m abandoned more than ten times a day and that’s merely in basic exchanges, it’s no wonder I and others like me shut the world out to our innermost realities.
W.E.

 

Intolerable

If I am at all intolerable,
it’s because I am in between reconciliation,
and choking on an apple.

I arrive at my slipperiness several times a day,
this dungeon has become all too familiar,
perhaps its stench has stained me,
and I reek of sin,
oddly an ever lucrative pheromone, or so it seems.

Why can they not smell it on me?
Why when all those years I’ve spent unnoticed do they now wish I was something they saw?

The more indifferent I was to them,
the wider their eyes became.

And deep in the pits of me I want to take a knife to their livers and make them suffer more,
“here,” I say, “taste your own bile, I’m already familiar with it”,
but those years alone not only make you outwardly cold and stoic, but inwardly abundantly empathetic and merciful,
so I smile and greet them instead,
with the same bashful innocence of a child who’s spent way too much time inside his heart,
inside his head.

I leave it all unsaid,
I resort to what I know best,
one step back, guard up and play rope a dope,
play hope a hope,
maybe, just maybe, someone will notice,
that I’m half in this world and half out,
and why I can give more of me at a tenth of who I am than others can with their full expanse, their full effort.

Even then, I have to filter myself,
water myself down as it’s too easy to fall in love with falling in love.

And echo on with war crys,
with quaking thighs,
with eyes and lies,
as we play this game of finders keepers,
allowing ourselves to be found,
allowing ourselves to be kept,
unkempt…. as it all may be,
some have less demanding needs,
a glance, an arm to lay on,
a kind word a moon apart,
anything, you can afford,
they sit like beggars at your door,
one more day, one more.

This poetry of dread and longing,
of insecure apetities that waver in and out of the bay of curling shores,
that can’t find its way through the swamp and withering of decay,
is all I have to offer,
the only oil lit niche in the wind of what does not and will not ever belong.

W.E.

eat your hurt

 

If I lower my voice,
perhaps it would become something of interest to you,
and you’d pay a little more attention,

it seems poets only live,
when they pass away,

or maybe I need to fade,
for you to know I have something to say.

Perhaps in my absence,
my presence,
would be of some semblance.

But all you see is you,
and I ask,
how can I eat your hurt,
if I’m still chewing on mine?

How can I let go of life to become immortal on a page, perhaps,
if you’re willing,
you could hear me,
and this juxtaposition of incurable worldliness and longing to be with the divine,
would be no more.

The virtuous wolf


Where is my prose snarled a hungry witch,
of crimson cheek and skin of lavender,
ego unfulfilled and hips that bare,
oblivious to the lurking scavenger.

The remnants of rib and soil,
pheromone for severed souls,
a waft, a zephyr, myrtle and sage,
and lustful pangs that she can’t control.

With whisk and ease came the wolf,
hearing her plea for excavation,
with a lifetime of ravage and hurt did he answer,
aloof with misery and devastation.

We perform best where our habits  reconcile,
where we return to our defaults,
I ravage because I’ve been ravaged.
I do to others what’s been done to me,
it’s how I love, how I hate.

I eat away until I reach the pit,
by then, I’ve become my prey,
or they’ve become me.
It’s hard to tell the difference.

This attachment is beyond the pull of gravity,
this attraction more like blissful insanity.

A man  waltzing with prose between his teeth,
ever an incisor for a willing player,
blood covered hands, nails and underneath,
content only as a soul slayer.

This grief, this wail, this mourning and shrill,
this distance and indifference, and reality pill,
this noise, and orchestra, and blunt tip quill,
this rapture, sin and Frankenstein will.

It’s grotesque and tender and poetry at once,
a culmination, an opus and the crescendo waiting for a home,
a bare skin canvas waiting for the cut,
in the end a wandering sail boat,
taken by winds, a storm and white wash foam.

And there resides that scavenging wolf,
torn between hunger and the thrill,
ever the demons, a wrestle till death,
hell with every pant, a battle of will.

This carnality for the pulse,
the race for fulfilment and satisfaction,
the lure of the woman, the dance with the devil,
the lustful glance of distraction.

-Wesam El dahabi

There is no prison worse than the one of being trapped to base desires.
The wolf is the carnal ego leading us down the path of destruction.

Rudderless

Advice:

Accept insignificance.
Accept your folly.
Accept insofar that it humbles you.

Don’t accept being vulgar and self centred,
and loving yourself is the quickest ticket there.

I know my faults well,
we’ve wrestled until our pulse is one and the same,
we’ve wrestled until both are tame.

When they rise to take control,
I’m there to shut myself down,
when I rise as if accomplished and complete,
they remind me of how lowly I am.

W.E.

Recipe for men

Solitude,
has been a recipe for manhood in my family for as long as I remember. Floors groaned at three am when my father would walk across wooden tiles that I always thought someone had meticulously jigsawed across the whole apartment.
His belt buckle, I can still hear, then came the jingle of coins in his pockets as he set off quietly to his work day, alone.

I still drive by that apartment and assume that it belongs to us, my childhood will haunt whoever lives there until I can buy it, just for fucks sake and keep it as a memory.

My grandfather was a loner too, son of many sons of mountain people wedged in a village and on the other side a sea.

He’d walk, in the early hours of the morning to his work too. He’d toil the mountains, his father a shepherd and farmer.

My uncles, all land people. Quiet men, but robustly strong men.

There’s manhood in solitude yet!

Someone tells us that we’re of prophetic lineage, Hashimi to be exact and this seems to be on the lips of other families in surrounding villages.

I hear it more than once as if it’s a get out of jail free card, but I’ve wrestled with myself in just as much quietude as my ancestors for me to believe that it’s true.

Still on the offchance it is, I think of my noble grandfather – I hope he’s my grandfather – The Prophet who received revelation in……. Solitude but was believed in multitude.

The man who was responsible for transforming the otherwise then despicable Arab peninsula – perhaps now just as despicable – into the centre of the world.

Maybe it’s solitude missing from my people, stopping them from rising to that place again.

I’ve turned too many pages to not know that great men, men who’ve had the biggest impact, real impact were always introverted and preferred the humble sifting grounds of solitude over the cacophany of noise amongst people.

And so distraction feels like an enemy sucking my marrow and I feel bad for even thinking of people as distractions.

They don’t even get a chance to develop a relationship with me before I have ignored them based on their incessantly noisy approach to being heard.

Tap me gently,
wake me softly,
brush up against me with prose,
waft past me with a perfume so enchanting you pull me out of my shell,
but don’t vie for my attention with claptrap and hyde.

I’ll find you, I’ll hear you, I’ll notice all your nuances like I noticed my home, my father, like I think of my ancestors walking alone at night.

Quiet men,
noble men,
men of fortitude,
sunken in solitude,
bathing in introversion,
aching in longing for answers to all their ponders,
too proud to ask,
stoic in acceptance of their fate.

Men that thought so much, that their hearts beat double as fast, silently away from the masses,
men who all died early.

Maybe they all die when their need for solitude is no longer met, when they can’t keep enough of themselves away from people.

Maybe they die when their secrets are exposed.