Gafsa... قفصة

PETIT FEE DE GAFSA

Elles ont surgi de derrière les dunes,
au milieu de presque nulle part…
leurs colliers à la main…
Pour cinq dinars, j’en ai eu des dizaines.
Puis nous avons parlé.
Je leur ai dit que mes Photos iraient sur ce blog,
que je parlerai d’elles,
d’eux...
Du vent et de la poussière,
qui accompagne leur vie rude, dénudée…
Je leur ai dit que je les aimais…
Alors, leur yeux se sont allumés,
comme le matin qui naissait.

Et la petite fée qui ne me quittait pas de son regard,
son sourire coulait en moi et me redonnait vie…
Je n’étais plus ce pauvre con de touriste,
j’étais devenu son rêve, son espoir,
J’étais devenu la preuve que même perdu
dans les dunes de Gafsa,
un homme était passé,
et même vêtue de guenilles
il lui avait dit avec ses regards :
« Petite fée de Gafsa, tu es belle
et je t’aime… »

YOUNG FAIRY OF GAFSA

They appeared back dunes,
in the middle of almost nowhere…
their necklaces in the hand …
For five dinars, I had it tens.
Then we spoke.
I said to them that my Photos would go on this blog,
that I shall speak about them,
about them...
About the wind and about the dust,
which accompanies their rough, bare life …
I said to them that I loved them …
Then, their eyes ignited, as the morning that rose.


And the young fairy who did not leave me of her glance,
her smile poured in me and restored me life …
I was not any more this poor idiot of tourist,
I had become her dream, her hope,
I had become the proof that even lost in the dunes of Gafsa,
a man was crossed,
and even dressed in rags

he had told her with his glances:
" Young fairy of Gafsa, you are beautiful and I love you … "

Strange Flower Of Gaping Greeting

***

Étrange fleur de l’irréel qui hypnotise Les regards imprudents… pour mieux les engluer. Leurs mots de volup - tueuse réflexion Attirent les ailes de l’oiseau qui se noie, L’oiseau qui cherche à se précipiter Dans l’abîme de ses rêves de mort… toujours Revenir au centre du cercle des défunts soupirs Pour mieux survivre…


Etrange fleur d’une mise à mort perpétuellement Recommencée, comme une vertigineuse ascension Vers un néant bien plus riche que les raisons médiocrement asservies… La mort comme ultime rêve pour mieux respirer la dernière bouffée De l’air qui va manquer. Vous crachez des gargouilles pour mieux Expulser leurs mémoires meurtrissant Bruyamment le sol de vos doutes Qui reviennent encore et encore…



Etranges fleurs de ce mal Qui toujours chantent les mêmes quantiques Aphoristiques . Mais les étranges fleurs mentent bien plus Que l’horizon des mirages des faux miracles Que des conteurs de passage sèment sous vos pas… Bien étranges fleurs que vous humez Pour mieux vous oublier, Pour mieux vous détourner De votre soleil, Que pourtant vous appelez sans que cesse Vos pleurs d’enfant et leurs cris qui continuent Dans vos nuits de fantômes inoubliables, Vous faisant dire qu’hier fut parfois bon, Mais sur les ruines de vos propres cristaux scintillants…



Les fleurs étranges envoutent les yeux de ceux qui cherchent A l’infini ce que leur cœur recèle de pur depuis la nuit des temps… Fleurs étranges, fleurs du néant Qui ne perdurera que tant que leur parfum Trouvera à vos narines la couleur de la béante salutation…

******

Strange flower of the unreal which hypnotizes The careless glances to stick them better. Their words of volup - killer reflection Attract the wings of the bird who drowns himself, The bird who tries to rush In the abyss of its dreams of death always to Return to the circle’s center of the deceaseds sighs to survive better …



Strange flower of a killing perpetually Begun again, as vertiginous one ascent Towards a nothingness richer than the inferiorly enslaved reasons … The death as ultimate dream to inhale better the last draft Of the air which is going to miss. You spit gargoyles to Expel better their memoirs bruising Noisily the ground of your doubts Which return again and again …



Strange flowers of this evil Which always sing the same Aphoristic quantum. But the strange flowers lie much more Than the mirages’ horizon of the false miracles Which passing storytellers sow under your steps … Very strange flowers which you smell to forget yourselves better, to divert you better From your sun, Which nevertheless you call without that stop Your child's tears and their shouts which continue In your nights of unforgettable ghosts, making You say that yesterday was sometimes good, But on the ruins of your own twinkling crystals …




The strange flowers bewich the eyes of those who look for In the infinity what their heart conceals of pure from time immemorial … Strange flowers, flowers of the nothingness Which will continue only as long as their perfume Will Find in your nostrils the color of gaping greeting …

Bombay Vomited

He! You! The human race! Stop vomiting! My heart is full
of your excrement...
And if the life may be divinely beautiful, you know so
well how to paint it of your bombs' fragment that where grows the jasmine,
it does rest nothing than anti-personal mines and amputations of
children's legs...
He! You! The human race! Look at Yourself !
When you drank up to the dregs in the chalice of your
mediocrity the roted blood of your vocation of the hells !
You rave dangerously on the thread of the balances,
you graze to the heart the tree of life which have been entrusted
to you unwisely...
It is written somewhere, that the last ones will be the
first ones...
Then I say it to you!
You, The human race, you know how to be the last of
the bitches, you will be the first one to disappear from God's plan...

If he does exists...

You have already disappeared from mine...

Sunset Departure...

Sitting in the airport in Tunis,
I’m waiting for my departure…
I ask for a coffee...

Sad morning

There are despondent mornings of days cunning
as the cancer which interfere in the chinks of the soul,
split short of sharp words and of stabs.
Feel again these faults and these wounds by cherishing your soul.
Reconstruct your sphere with a honey of tenderness,
use the poetry and the Amur,
the morning sun, the blue of the sky tinged with silk,
the Life.
Soft.
Be soft with you, Woman.
Do not believe what say the rough voices of the Child-men.
Do not believe these warriors disguised as knights.
Get closer to the Jester.
He, knows the poetry of the Amur, the jokes which make you smile.
And if nobody can caress you, caress your heart of the light of your lips which half-open.
And if nobody sees that you are beautiful look in the mirror, you will see the Beauty there.
And if nobody sees that you exist it's not important.
In your Realm, you are Princess.

...My sister writing

My sister...

Woman in the women's multitude,
Wearing the women's flag in her broken heart...
Sister of all sisters of the world
who never see the light
at the end of the tunnel,
Human being digging her life
as digging a grave...
Where is the bliss that she deserve,
as much she's been carrying with courage and self-denial
her part of the mankind's destiny...

Courage, sisters, courage my little sister...
Your suffering is your light
for few you free yourself from the men's weakness
Your quest will success for few you rebuild your realm...

Coz in the second level of life's flowing,
Men are the ignoramus...
And women the tomorrow's hopeness...

Dedicated to all women heartbroken...

XXX