my heart has been gathered from a different slices,
One when I was a sheep in the land of God,
the Shepard tells me right,
I go right.
Other survived from a broken soldier,
who he just knew,
that his mother lost her life,
when she saw him,
on the TV,
with his face,
with all his lost father’s traces,
with a bullet in his heart.
The third was taking,
from a broken heart,
of a homeless poet,
who could not resist his lonely Satan,
that his heart belongs to devilish girl,
with Gazzele’s eyes,
saw her naked,
couldn’t resist the ties.
You got those eyes.
I watch my little girl go to sleep,
I envy her dreams,
because I’m not in them,
with my own blood, and my own sweat,
my own thoughts,
not a magical mystery version of who I am,
who might be dancing jazz,
or drinking beer,
or hunting deers,
or being a monkey in her little jungle box,
maybe a lizard talking to her hair
that it is the comfiest nest I ever laid on.
not a nice in shape man,
or a dirty talking clown.
not in the most romantic scene in the movies,
holding her hands,
while the wind comes across,
while the Pacific ocean,
wets her clothes.
I envy her eyes,
they might be kissing in the dark side of my little moon,
I tell her don’t sleep,
I’m missing you.
If I shot myself,
Would you consider me a martyr?
would you write poems about me?
tell stories of how my smile could drive the war away,
would you wear my words,
print my face,
and sell my name to a defective cause?
If I shot myself,
would the sky gloom grey on your window?
would the statue you’re going to build,
have my 8 beauty spots?
would it be a public urine for the drunks, the assholes, and the sheikhs?
would you tell the people that I shot myself,
If I shot myself?
The Talmud says “wherever you look, there’s something to be seen”,
and I look to your eyes,
and see war sharing bed with peace,
blood under one red roof with happiness,
a grizzly deer being hunted by a wild beard,
and a mermaid with tail cut running naked in the streets of your heart,
I see my love shattered like a broken bottle of old beer,
that’s not here anymore,
left the drunks angry and mad,
they lost the way to the local bar,
40 years ago.
I see ashes of the last burnt down hope,
and the ghost of the last beloved child,
and my lips kissing your whore of a mouth!
I love you,
I hate you,
I’m leaving you,
you’re leaving me,
and I wish you the most beautiful domination ever,
I see you smell of coffee, gas, your own piss, and the cigarette butts of the lost not to be found souls.
I see you,
and I see that God, created something awesome,
but hateful yet!
(I was young)
When I was young,
I didn’t do much, just abonded my dreams,
didn’t get a hangover,
Just lied down on my couch, and Netflixed all of my life,
I had the urge to write stories,
I didn’t find interesting,
so I just flushed all of my writing career down the drain,
as I should have done to you my lovely kids,
raised you, when I wasn’t able to raise my self.
The kind of stories,
I would tell my children,
when I turn 55,
before I commit suicide,
and laugh and piss on the spirit of old age.
raising my middle finger into life,
for the local newspaper to tell:
Former Libyan writer who stopped writing at age 30,
May he rotten in hell.
I have my share of doubts,
like: is my coffee going to taste good this time? I should probably not have coffee.
All the doubts of the world,
Today, might be the start of the judgment day,
or, is there really such thing?
Does my mother love me?
or is it just a mere coincidence, for me to be her son?
I have my doubts about cats,
sometimes I think they’re up to something,
like invading my dreams,
and talking to me,
in a scary way.
I have my doubts about writing,
it’s just a hideous way to live,
they are just stuck with me, maybe.
Doubts about life,
isn’t death as nice as a spoonful of chocolate?
doubts I do not share,
doubts I keep editing like an old newspaper editor,
who only has coffee, cigarettes.
and a bunch of words to cross.
Could I leave my bed, my room, my house, my city, my country or my planet?
the world is yours,
I really doubt that.
I love you,
I doubt that,
I doubt the existince of war,
its sweet way of killing hope.
I doubt my existence,
my old father’s ideology,
I doubt my doubts,
and just carry on..
keeping myself busy,
by masturbating in front of the morning birds.
to piss off this land.
(The white man)
I heard about the white man,
since I was young,
the evil, as my leader brother once said,
the Jews as my mother thinks that not all of who are not Muslims, good prayers and well thanks giving to god, must be Jews. maybe a story she heard from a sheikh, my grandmother who heard it from hers too.
the one who made Tarzan as my young Mickey mouse think like mind,
the good, bad, racist, fascist, funny, creative, God fearing maybe, God fearing for sure, doesn’t even matter, who gives a shit, with good nice beer, and hot ass girls, the tall, the blonde, the ugly, the romantic, the crazy, the lovely, the handsome, the beautiful, the role model, the every stereo type you want, me, and she wants to believe in.
yes, I did.. I heard about him,
I met him,
eat with him or her, maybe even them.
and there was… this gift,
this one gift I wanted to give him,
so he can give me the one I wanted him to give,
didn’t asked for it,
but I wished he gives,
he opened it up,
for him to look,
where I come from,
a place that was shed by 2000 years of a a horrible spell,
An old goddess and wife of Zeus,
she saw her man cheating on her with that land,
the once called Medusa,
so it made her stay in the stone age,
where people feel that every stranger is an enemy, but they were kind to each other,
loving as hard they can,
sometimes even in the harshest ways,
for them to be as one as you,
you resemble them,
they resemble you,
you see their faces in the mirrors on you,
you see them talking to you,
in your private thoughts,
and bla bla bla bla bla bla bla,
bla bla bla bla bla bla bla,
he looked at it,
and he said:
so Muhammad, should I order you a Halal meal?
I laugh and say: yes please, that will be good.
and I finish my meal,
as one could do,
to an English poem.
(I had friends)
I had friends,
One I saw him wearing military clothes,
shaking hands with a dictator,
I brought a knife, to cut the hand that once shook his,
not because he shook a dictator,
it was trembling from nicotine, Ventolin and Caffeine.
I had friends,
One lost his face, a couple of his fingers to a fish bomb,
I remembered that I always wanted a face like his,
His handsomeness just shaded away in a celebration of a wedding,
I hated weddings for that.
Another, stopped me once in a militia security gate,
He asked me: where do you live?
Do you have guns?
Is this your car?
Where are you heading?
Do you have drugs?
Who are your childhood friends?
and I was afraid that he would discover the 1 gram of Hash,
I have in my pocket,
like he once discovered my love to Haneen,
my childhood crush!
I had friends,
One went back to Syria,
I had friends,
One went from being gay to a total ISIS maniac,
one I saw him, wearing jeans and flirting with girls after years,
he taught me to follow God,
even if he asked me to drop my body into the nearest Arabic Well.
I had friends,
One showed me, how much a man can do for love,
when he knew that I changed my thoughts about God, Libya, Tuna Sandwiches, Breaking laws, Sufi Dancing, Seeing him, Islam, cigarettes and alcohol for a woman,
he called me a heretic.
I had friends,
full of life, obscurities, dreams, shattered faces, mustaches, 25 years of jerking of, not knowing what does it feel to be loved truly by a woman, like truly, like really truly.
(Kissing my girl)
I dreamed of kissing my girl around the alley
of the clock work tower,
hold her hand starting
from the sandy streets of Tajoura,
under palm trees,
across Svenze makers,
until we reach the end of Omar Almokhtar,
bargaining (both of us holding hands) with a street seller,
for a 10 dinars off a cheap perfume,
Holding her thighs as we watch the sun sets on the horizon of Tripoli’s Corniche!
I dreamed of drinking OYA’s beer behind the ear,
of a stubborn city,
Hazy sounds of Somalian soldiers jazz bar,
marching to the smaller death,
as soon as the dawn cry of its tears.
A simple man dreams!, I always say.
to dance with my girl in a hot – as fuck- evening,
around the asphalt of the mermaid’s fountain,
and her shattered ashes,
But as a wise man once said: Dreams are only dreams.
Don’t go around, making high expectations of this shithole land.
I’ve been here,
I said to the Taxi driver,
We were three, drunk of laughter,
smoking our misfortune,
and making a joke about a fat guy swimming in a whiskey pool,
we called The asshole,
One shouted: Ten years from now you’re going to miss…
I didn’t know those ten hours then, I would be missing his complicated behavior towards cats, rich people and fuckable girls.
The other said in a poetic way: Good night, my bastard friends.
I didn’t know, if the night will ever come again,
even if it did,
how lonely would it be, without mocking his artistic soul and middle age crisis in a cocktail of overwhelming happiness.
Last I heard he married himself,
“Keep going you bastard”,
running away from writers we knew,
from a country we agreed to be both goddess and a whore,
breakfasting eggs, coffee, croissant and terrible dreams,
Literature people problems,
and full of broken dreams about God and greatness.
The taxi driver lit his cigarette and said: shut up!
and he smoked the place out of my heart,
and turned on the radio,
a song came out:
You can keep me,
inside the pocket of your ripped jeans.
and I sang.
(North African man)
I’m from north Africa,
I live in an African village,
in front of African shores,
maybe the most famous of them all,
the ones that let Africa lands on Lambidosa,
the first they see in heaven’s shores..
Imagination leads to think of European streets, European money, European life, European houses, Or even plus European “whores”…
I’m an African,
by birth, by my chance, by the nature of life and death, rich and poor, destiny or a scientific fate,
The sun is lies next to me,
burns so hot,
the water is so rare and pure,
the black water is so sure,
being in war two times or more,
and I have being living for 26 years,
and didn’t ride the train,
didn’t have no job,
didn’t felt a freshly brewed cold ice beer,
or even how is it not so good,
to be in a disluck
like me,.to be Arab, Amazigh and African like me.
Man dreamed about flying high,
he created the plane.
Man dreamed about drowning without death,
he created love
Man dreamed of Gods, glory and Power,
he created war.
The only dream that ever comes to my eyes, is to be abandoned for a life time, in a desert, forest or island away from the midnight guns.
Man dreamed of leaving his mark,
he left a 50 thousand years of destruction.
Man slept in an empty stomach,
when he woke up, he had his hands full of money,
and got drunk over the river of blood.
Man is dead and left me out with no gasoline.
Automatic, Auto tuned, Auto disgusted and auto angry, I have become.
my tank is full of broken data about Good and evil,
Man is dead. I say…
This is my prophecy..
since he was born.
(Stair it up)
Stair it up, Marley once said,
and I say this to you my dear Ghazala,
Take off your coat of war, be shameless,
surprisingly funny, and be drunk of 100 years of good wine or healthy beer,
smoke the pain away,
all of the fuckers you slept with,
and the son’s of bitches who roll your red shady walls away down, down, down!
Little darling, little slutty love of mine,
take off yourself, your old whining self,
and have a look to the sea that hugs you,
to the hair you have, like Essarwel trees,
to the breast of an Italian Venus,
holding a jar of riches,
look to other things between your thighs,
things, that can’t be told.