How to marry, son.

 

Marry a woman with vision my son,
if she can’t see,
if she is so self absorbed,
and afflicted with infatuation,
how will she bear you a son,
gift you a daughter,
that holds humanity in their heart?
What future is there in all that intoxication with the self?

None, I promise you, none.

Do not fall victim to your eyes,
fancy words,
nor the pitter-patter of your heart.

All of that will be nonsense to you,
when in thirty years,
your heart breaks,
because your child bears the same fruit,
of short sightedness.

Wesam El dahabi

kinaesthetic

Sometimes I feel like holding all the women of the world
and asking,

how long will it take to make friends with your body?

It’s never enough,
and when it is,
then you’ll migrate to your face,
when that’s mutilated,
you’ll blame the man you conditioned to accept your new appearance,
the man who made you to do it by his fleeting eyes,
his carnal soul,
fetishly fleshen,
and I wonder,
who’s the victim,
you or him?

-Wesam El dahabi
Feminism is failing you. Take back your womanhood,

feminism is for little girls,

a ploy to keep you as childish as possible for as long as possible.
You can’t claim to own yourself when you paint and fashion yourself just as society has shaped every product for you.
I’m longing to look at my sisters in humanity with their unmasked faces,

in their real skin,

in the shape that God fashioned them in,

without hardened cheeks, and soulless eyes,

with poetry between their teeth and perfumed souls.

But who am I and what do I know,

don’t let a man tell you what to do.

When envy is not a sin

You’d want my loneliness too,
if you knew in the midst of it all,
you could always carve up poetry.
if you could write a zephyr onto your breath.

They can’t taste the bile and metal,
or is it a liver punch and ketosis,
is it the fog and swell beneath your eyes,
come, come reach you some more,
what have you got for me,
that I can envy you in return for,
what have you got,
that will arch my back for more?

My solitude is plenty enough for you and I.

Wesam El dahabi

metaphor of a man


It’s a good thing,
that most men can’t articulate their feelings,
but evolving from hands that dig and bury,
that sew and reap,
so too do they plough the fields of their emotions,
turn them over in secret,
and patiently wait for another harvest.

Sometimes, it never comes,
others, the land remains arid,
or seasons come and seasons go,
and not a fruit drops to the floor,
and yet, they toil on,
much to the merit of their character,
and to the detriment of an ingrate of a woman,
who demands his attention after he has bled his knuckles dry.

Unsatisfied with his sacrifice,
she belittles him, demands more,
and he,
secretly blossoms poetry in his soul.

Had she waited, she could have had him whole,
But in haste, she waves her feminist flag,
as if to say she raised herself independent of him all this time,
now she waits for another man, struggling to find his words,
mute, much the same,
toiling with his body to show love,
choking on his verse.

W.E.

feminist delusions

Whenever I hear a female say such a thing,
I about face.
I know, for a fact, with total surety,
she’s a bad woman.

If you have good in you,
you know there is good in others.
It’s as simple as that.

Dilute it,
cut it,
carve it,
mix it,
contort it
and philosophise,
whichever way you like,
it remains,
as simple as that.

W.E.

I’m tired of listening to garbage women be cheer leadered on by other garbage women whenever they regurgitate these bland mantras like as if Moses came down from the mountain and revealed divine scripture to her.

Women, perhaps hard done by with a bad man who then take it upon themselves to muster support through social circles by writing off half of humanity.

Guess what?
We’re someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s father. Take your shit attitude and remain with your shit people and leave the goodness to us, we don’t want you in our social, familial, cultural or spiritual circles anyway. Otherwise, grow up, try and develop and become a great person, irrespective of the cards you’ve been dealt.

W.E.

“VERILY, for all men and women who have surrendered themselves unto God, and all believing men and believing women, and all truly devout men and truly devout women, and all men and women who are true to their word, and all men and women who are patient in adversity, and all men and women who humble themselves [before God], and all men and women who give in charity, and all self-denying men and self-denying women, 38  and all men and women who are mindful of their chastity, and all men and women who remember God unceasingly: for [all of] them has God readied forgiveness of sins and a mighty reward”

Quran 33:35

*38 Guarding ones private parts

To be clear, the quote was from the song ‘You should love, what you know of me’ -Johnny Bang Reilly

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.

the slight of her hand, if only you’d understand

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I see in metrics and measure,
the slight of your hand against his,
I know what your fingers search for,
but does he?

Is he aware you’d throw it all away,
if he’d just gaze once with his entirety?

And for this reason,
I, a man amongst men,
am more woman than most women,
willing to stare with more than my eyes,
fierce enough to punish yours,
with a ray into your soul,
until you’d do everything to hide your needs from me.

What more is left for a woman,
who’s had the stare she longs for pierce her soul,
except to veil her beauty for no other man to see.

W.E.