Asa’ad Al-Jabbouri

Translated by: Osama Isber

In the garage…

A family beyond sleep
And there is an ulcer that

Blabbers in a lift that reads the

Clouds.

This is a star winkled

Suggestions

For a rose that resembles the

Womb of the mixer.

A woman trembles under a

Skin of glass.

Her autumm is a reader in a

Marchiavellian garden;

Where trees are made of

Iron

And laws are canned.

New York,

This kiss is narrow!

And water asks for its

Female in Roosevelt’s bed.

Where pants, helmets,

Ballons and plagues

Are scattered.

This kiss is narrow!

Because it does nor fly over

Banks.

Desire does not float

Neither the blue moon in the

Hudson.

Thus the stab grows in the

Festival

In order to reach Harlem’s

Day which is hanged

Like washed clothes

It is a garden of black milk

That vomits humanity.

There are no question in a

City surpassed by seasons

And cover left its body.

It is not possibility.

And it is not the maid of

Possibility.

Life was torn apart here

In the authority

In the air

In the breasts

In alcohol

The seas of vision are brilli-

ant

but the Mississippi

is an apple of Marijuana in

the head.

Now I sit between a sword

And tile birds…

In my own shadows the sear of

The clinics’ philosophers is

Waving

While Katrin is purifying

America’s punches.

Above her the clouds that

Descend towards the hills of

Mice and

Seek their center in the

Nerves.

Now

There is no empty room in

The book of New York

Which got rid of its bra

And ran with its breasts to

Dust

Dragging question behind.

It is disturbed by Urwa Ibin

Al-Ward

And the antiques of the Orient

And the Cries of birds.

New York

How can we start our dialogue

While there is an adolescent

Torpedo in your mouth?

Oh! Columbus, time is a

purse of money

New York../

Are these eyes a shelter for

The orphans of angels?

We will enter the brain.../

To liberate our pictures

From delayed calendars.

Also our childhood

Will take us to the post

Office.

In order to travel

In the perfection of ash.

There is no country.

Except Language.

We enter the field of indifference

And look at the far towers.

The mind is an aquarium

Of cognac

For the sake of freedom

Between dioxide desires

The saxophone

The saxophone…

Did not invent history.

The sun of New York is

Still locked

Destruction is the only driveling

Wheel on the road of writing.

I spend a perfect time

Enjoying the opposite inheritor

Where plagues walk on the

Table of diplomatic dinner.

Towards any wisdom

Towards any imagination

New York is moving?

New York…/

A cart of pace artillery

Followed by chorus of

Electronic trumpets.

While love is a hat that

Weeps above American’s

Baldness.

Oh godfather.

You did not hear except the

Trible’s groaning

The coming days

Are cerebral concussions.

This air says../

I am an air.

But New York says:

I am the law of breathing

An my greeting to my brother

In nihility

Our singing is black

And whenever a rose

Touches it

The grass of suffocation

Grows in the sky.

Is it the rose of love or the

Rose of iraq?

We are standing on the

Political carpet

The windowers of parties

And scets stand in front of us.

Behind us the tribes of doxtrines

And the opposition’s divorced

Women.

This is a country suffocated

By the necklace

These roses are not for our

Festival.

New York

The highest table for

Omission.

And the glass is the map of

The stranger.

What will u day

To the domes, the gardens,

And the ghosts

Of the temporary constitution?

And everyone in the

Country

Is like the ruler in hell.

Let us smuggle the texts

Through the emergency door

Bearing fires on our backs

Like censers of tears.

It is the table of the last

Supper.

http://www.alimbaratur.com/All_Pages/English/En_007/En_007.htm