hope never aligns with the forces of yesterday that defend themselves / hope always sides with the forces of tomorrow that attack / hope will never inform you what these forces are and whom they attack / there are certain things you must figure out for yourself / one plus one equals two
I have no fatherland / I live within words / That are shrouded in black / And held hostage / Mustapha Khayati, can you hear me? / The seat of power is in language / Where the police patrol / No more poetry circles! / No more poet laureates!
Give me a person to cover me,/ there is a draft of cold air in my loneliness;/ dig as I might in my belly I find/ only stones./ (Perhaps you should dig with me too.)/ On the way to my face I collect rocks by the handful./ That is why I tell you, give me a person!/ To lie on him/ in all my meridians,/ in all my latitudes, to rest,/ to drink his sweat,/ to sleep./ Let me enjoy a little this fluffed/ warmth.
Rhymes from the book Μα είν' αυτό ποίηση; (But Is This Poetry?)
Rhymes from the book Μα είν' αυτό ποίηση; (But Is This Poetry?)
Rhymes from the book Μα είν' αυτό ποίηση; (But Is This Poetry?) Fuck off, flower poets. Fragile as your amaryllis. Blinding and bloating yourself with silk: constantly eating and shitting a chrysalis. The doddering leftists toast with milk the stinking rats on the sinking Samina, who flee too fast to let the cheese curdle. My words are Fedayeen: verbal, fatal, fertile—where will you be when the blood begins to burble?