By Fathi Muhadub | Tunisia
From Arabic Dr. Yousef Hanna | Palestine
A scary filthy room filled with pictures of strange creatures. Angels pulling iron chariots filled with tombstones, animals with human heads, birds with giraffe legs, strange abundant wings, and various skeletons.
I surprised him, immersed in his seclusion, examining a skull that it is very difficult to identify its affiliation, female or male.
He was not older than the third decade of life, as long as the noose. Skinny and hunched, as if he’s Comte de Lautréamont (1) at a terrible funeral party.
Do not despair, my precious skull. I will blow on you from my soul and return you to the world of the universe and corruption.
I will not bear your death and stillness, nor your objective inhabited with the whistle of nothingness.
You are worthy of a face of an eternal, indomitable god.
He was wearing an accursed demon mask.
He has buried his right leg in the nearby cathedral since the postman committed suicide.
They made a wooden leg for him, similar to the oar of a Pharaonic boat.
Here he is murmuring and mysterious words are circling in the room, sputtering in panic from his swollen lips:
ـ L i f e… L i f e… L i f e…
ـ Come back with my permission, with my magical power.
He placed the skull in a vessel, cleaned it with a brush, removed the layer of dust surrounding it, affixed two pulsating eyes in their orbits which he stole from the body of a recently dying woman.
Do not forget that he was fond of exhuming graves and stealing organs of the dead.
He was not trading it but hiding it
In ceramic beakers in his insulated workshop.
The smell of blood, corpses, and annihilation gives the place a profound tragedy.
He replaced her nose by a nose tip of a sophistic clown. And inserted a denture into her edentulous mouth. He drew thin eyebrows with a black pen. Promising her to transplant captive gypsy hair next week.
The lamp light was very dim.
Nihilistic spiders sneak out of his cloudy eyes. The rhythm of the breaking waves hit the boat of his intense obsessions.
Now it’s all over. Now I have completed my blessing on you, and you will return back to life. As well as get rid of the scourge of death and devastation.
Beautiful things should not last to annihilation in my beliefs and multitudes.
Death is a castrated wolf running after its victims since the beginnings. I am the life maker and the emitter of the dead from graves.
I am the god who will delight the world through its marvelous conquests.
(1) Comte de Lautréamont was the nom de plume of Isidore Lucien Ducasse, a French poet born in Uruguay. His only works, Les Chants de Maldoror and Poésies, had a major influence on modern arts and literature, particularly on the Surrealists and the Situationists. Ducasse died at the age of 24.