Your soul, two and a half meters
By Fathi Muhadub | Tunisia
Translation from Arabic Dr. Yousef Hanna | Palestine
Herbert Gustave Schmalz
Are you really going to flee with the conductor of the orchestra, laden with baskets of cocoa?
– Will you carry the red tux that killed so many thieves?
– Your hat staring at the sleeping passersby.
– Your soul, which is two and a half meters.
– Your Parisian dress filled with the perfume of fire.
– Your daily accessories and orange of omission.
– Your laughter drenched in tears and prayers.
– Your voice filled with strawberries.
– What is the fate of the deer you forgot in your last Dadaist text?
And the arctic fox that you fed your hot breasts?
– Are you really going to Samarkand?
Riding the sea and wipe the tears of the drowned.
followed by a persecuted family of dolphins
to protect your boat from delirium.
to refine the nature of waves in the darkness.
– The important thing:
I will shoot with live fire at the giant farewell elephants.
I will take out my liver and feed the eagle of madness.
I will take off my glasses and throw my swollen eyes out of the
plane window.
– Did you forget how many sweet hour rabbits we have eaten.
– On the bus that eats contrasts like a lion in the savannah.
In gardens you think like the Stoics.
In the jungle ruled by the leopard of nostalgia.
– Your heart was a panicked fish.
and my chest is an aquarium of glass and reeds.
– Your obsessions are constantly raining.
– My silence speaks eloquently,
plotting a epistemic revolution.
– A policeman is chasing us on an ostrich back
opening successive showers on our memories, packed with the
rhythm of narrative story.
– Taliban fighters chase us with burning glass.
– Grave diggers chase us with plastic coffins.
– The polytheists of Quraish with mortar shells.
We were hiding in the Titanic.
In winter
– We go to church on tiptoes.
Jesus baptizes us with transparent threads of light,
giving us a basket of fresh sardines
and he keeps luring us with his blue eyes to the bed of the Ursa Major.
While our fragile prayers flounder in the court.
– Are you really going to flee like a queen after the fall of the throne?
Chew my heart and throw it to monsters?
leaving a huge number of bulls regurgitating my arteries in the
Stable?
– Winter is coming, my love
like a Circassian fighter.
– Theatre actors were shot dead.
– Our dog spreads its arms out over the text threshold.
guards my imagination from thieves and pirates.
I’m so angry my love
(I will cut off my testicles and throw them in the toilet.)
– I’m going to rip off the butt of the waitress.
Wine has the taste of your watchful breasts.
I know it will be a very harsh winter,
full of cough, knives and feces.
– I’ll cry alone
Like a Tibetan monk in a brothel.
The ones I love have gone into oblivion.
– The captains smash the clouds.
and passersby bark furiously.
– I will drive solitude out of the bedroom like a punk.
– I will chase you, my love
like a hungry leopard.
– I will kill the conductor with an axe.
– The weather is totally unfavorable.
– Hulagu Khan on the roof of the house.
– Negroes are beating drums around.
And by street warfare I’m determined
to take back your crown, queen
and to strangle the orchestra conductor with my imaginary nails.
