Introversion forty four

introversion-forty-four

 

You’re only as attractive as your last sale.
And humankind struggles to put together an identifiable model of acceptance,
fear, the most successful sales pitch is not only pitched by the sales people, it is pitched by the purchaser, and so the foray of beings so desperate to sell themselves to others as worthy will ironically buy up whatever it is to sell themselves and stay attractive in the eye of the shopper. Most people are shoppers, they can’t help it, they’re conditioned that way.

From birth, the sales pitches begin, you’re bombarded with the messages that you need to purchase stuff to be worthy.
Men, rush to appear dominant, successful, ambitious and driven, women too are buying them same. Women rush to appear beautiful and attractive, physically appealing, whatever it takes, men too rushing to much the same.

Fake lips,
fake eyes,
fake cheeks,
more lies.

Bleached teeth
fake breasts,
fake beards,
fake chests.

Fake money,
fake status,
fake tans,
fake lashes.

Financed cars,
psychologist appointments,
wannabe stars,
perpetual disappointments.

Feathered eyebrows,
both she and he,
blind hearts, dead souls,
physical eyes but they cannot see.

This drudgery,
this misery,
this dichotomy,
of the world being raised on consumer culture,
thus everyone trying to sell ‘me’.

And yet here I am,
a spanner in the works,
here to tell you,
sell nothing,
and consider yourself dirt.

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.

-No Filters

mosque1

-No filters

Fitting for the thoughts that this place always inspires,
like the hand of a saint brushed past it’s walls,
it haunts, and liberates me all at once.

What is this litmus between you and I,
neither of fire,
nor of water,
a breath escaping from the prison of my mind,
a gasp reverberating in syncopating time.

Finding you, finding me, finding you,
has become an obsession of improbable magnitude,
the lower I go,
the more sinful I am,
the stronger my urge,
the needier my purge.

Aching spine,
wretched and supine,
almost torn twine,
and all I can do is hold my eye lids open,
trying not to flinch as it snaps.

Oh the sap, oh the sap,
the strumming of a harp,
the belting of a flute,
paralysing, humiliating me,
to absolutes and mute.

There’s silent mourn,
guilt and yearn,
torture and patience,
dead ends at every turn,
but grief is worth this slow twist and churn,
cold knife, the only way to learn.

W.E.

the ambition of anxiety

anxiety
I’ve found you lurking in the shadows,
bullying me to submit to you,
berating and mocking my conviction,
my relent to release my living to you.

I know who you  are and pity you,
anxiety, how lonely you must be,
to want to devote all your ambition to me.

There is no home for you here,
I don’t live in yesterdays grave,
nor tomorrow’s dream,
but stuck in the middle with me,
in the present, in the now,
you diminish,
you wither,
you lay like a wounded animal,
begging for my attention.

W.E.