Imperfect Perfection


A Poem By : Kamal Abdulhamid

O “Gamila”
Bet on another name
I am just an imperfect Perfection
I bless you in my death
I happily tell the dust about you
I say: Blessed you are in life and in death
Because you rain wherever you go


I think that this cigarette
Is the last candle that I crankily light
While I remember your scent
I prepare my will
In the corner of the bar
I think I will die here
In front of the piano player
While she plays a dancing melody
Without knowing
How we danced together
Then threw our perfume on the ground
We closed the window with two kisses
So that the sea does not envy us


I think I will put my heart
In the Chivas bottle
I will drown it behind the breakwater
I will wait …
Maybe you will pass by here
Maybe you will look from the kitchen window
Maybe you will observe the blueness of death in my fingers

Oh, how I love you …
And deny secretly crying over you


Certainly, I was not born in a bar
But whenever I entered a pub
I would sit with my legs crossed
Because God has protected me enough from evil
And sent after me a hundred angels, saying:
Do not leave him alone to kill himself


Certainly, I was not born in a bar
But I love “Baudelaire”
I suggest to my friends every night
Not to sleep without two glasses of Chivas
At least two glasses of Chivas or Vodka
And I promise them with a miracle
If they dance to the rhythm of
“No Woman … No Cry”

Certainly, I was not born in a bar
But I piously cry
I talk to the table as if it is an unfaithful woman
Maybe it never happened before
That a man cried over an unfaithful table
And traced the biography of its grandparents in faraway forests


I can fool you all and say:
A two-floor spacious apartment
With a view on a river or a gulf
I can lie
And claim that the marble is colored
And that twenty women
Wished to stay by my side
Because I talk to their breasts
In a strange delirium


I can say
That no one in this world
In the opposite streets
Does not know that I curse my lover with singing

I can tell the truth
And you will say: Oh my God, what a liar!
And that is why
I will phone ten Imams
And ten Priests
And ten Rabbis
And confess to them the sins of my lover


O Imams,
And Rabbis
My apartment is small and humble
Angles do not enter except one by one
Mostly an angel comes
Then drowns two steps after the doorstep
Mistaken is he, who visits me by the end of the week
Because I cry hard when my lover dies
I make deep oceans after half a bottle of Chivas
And when I sleep, I wish it would drown me
As long as they are my lover’s deep sins 

O Imams, Priests, and Rabbis
Whenever my lover dies, I dig a grave in the house
And I cry over it
That is why it is difficult now to go to the kitchen
Without jumping between one ocean and the other
And in my faraway depths, I want to fall and drown
But my body disobeys me
And the Orthopedic surgeon asks me:
How did you suddenly get rid of back pain
And become agile enough
To escape death
A hundred times a day?


Do you not see
How my body conspires with my lover
How it betrays me
And is skilled in jumping and surviving
Ok, do not tell anyone
I will trick my body one night
I will say, “Come on, we have to go to the kitchen”
And above one ocean
I will keep a storm for him
After that
He will not be able to punish me
Or plot with my lover a new letdown


Let me tell you
Crying over “Gamila” did not save me
From “Gamila’s” cruelty
That is why I bought a five-burner stove
To find someone to talk to whenever my lover dies
Which is why I now have many friends
And a few paintings of naked women
My friends have no previous experience
With infidelity
Except some small fleeting malfunctions


O Imams,
And Rabbis
Open the road to heavens
Intercede for my soul in your prayers
Believe me …
Someone like me is worthy of pity and concern
Because my lover popped my eye
And ate my tongue
With no basis of a holy text

اترك تعليقاً

Your email address will not be published.

المقالة السابقة

The Barman’s Confessions

المقالة التالية

Your Name Has What Resembles Haiku

اخر المقالات من Selected Pomes