Cyclone of softness
I did it. I translated a poem into English with a little spice of french, and it’s not too shabbie I think. Enjoy it and may the sun give you a big ass tongue kiss. U know that kind of thangelang.
Cyclone of softness, arsonist of my heart, resurrection of wildflowers, Arabic nostalgia, a black eye and mesmerized by a new day in the horizon.
To whisper horny things in each other’s ears, to smile and laugh, to look at girls, to be restless and wear dirty jeans and copies of high-end brands, flooded in European semiotics.
With Dolce & Gabbana & Gucci in graphic cursive on our T-shirts & belt bags, we simulate a wealth that only heightened the sensation of our hunger.
To live in a spectacle, in a north African wet dream by the side of the road, to whistle pass boats of freedom.
To pull clothes down in Omo in a blue tub.
I sniffed the smell of tobacco and gas on the backseat of cars. I lean my head on the side of the car window. I am dirty and my hear rubs against sand and I become static. I slide my fingers into the cracks of dry holes. I move my hands and pull in the wind. I am free.
Nostalgie arabe, les mois noirs et le crisp d’une nouvelle journée dans l’horizon.
La folie est un fleuve rugissant, un bleu turquois, c’est une mer algéroise.