Thursday, January 20, 2011

cutie-pies :)

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Thursday, January 13, 2011

||

ودارت الأيام
ومرت الأيام
ما بين بعاد وخصام
وقابلته....نسيت إني خصمته
ونسيت الليل اللي سهرته
وسامحت عذاب قلبي وحيرته
ما اعرفش إزاي إزاي إزاي أنا كلمته
ما اقدرش على بعد حبيبي
أنا ليا مين أنا ليا مين إلا حبيبي

قابلني والأشواق في عنيه
سلم
سلم وخد ايدي في ايديه
وهمس لي قالي الحق عليه
نسيت ساعتها بعدنا ليه
فين دموع عيني اللي ما نامت ليالي
بابتسامه من عيونوا نسهالي
امر عذاب....واحلى عذاب
عذاب الحب..عذاب الحب للأحباب
ما اقدرتش اصبر يوم على بعده
ده الصبر عايز عايز صبر لوحده
ما اقدرش على بعد حبيبي...

وصفولي الصبر
لقيته خيال وكلام في الحب
يا دوب يا دوب ينقال
واهرب من قلبي اروح على فين
ليالينا الحلوة في كل مكان
مليناها حب احنا الأثنين
وملينا الدنيا امل
امل وحنان
عيني عيني على العاشقين
حيارى مظلومين
عالصبر مش قادرين
ما اقدرتش اصبر يوم على بعده
ده الصبر عايز عايز صبر لوحده
ما اقدرش على بعد حبيبي...

ودارت الأيام
ومرت الأيام
وهل الفجر بعد الهجر
بلونه الوردي بيصبح
ونور الصبح صحى الفرح
وقال للحب قوم نفرح
من فرحتي فرحتي تهت مع الفرحه
ما اقدرش على بعد حبيبي
من فرحتي فرحتي لا بنام ولا بصحى
ولقيتني معاك بعيش معاك
بعيش في ربيع ما فيش كده ما فيش كده
بين شوق ما ينتهيش
وشوق وشوق وشوق ثاني ابتدى
ما اقدرتش اصبر يوم على بعده
ده الصبر عايز عايز صبر لوحده
ما اقدرش على بعد حبيبي...

medium rare -

mass media is a funny thing. #Lebanon yesterday, a political deja vu. today, talks of the deja vu, with archive images of the valentine assassination of rafiq hariri on CNN and stills of people crossing rivers on planks of wood coupled with subtitles of horror on the net.

whatever. i want lindsay lohan.

N.B. the fun part is.. *drumroll*  ..this is brazil [ http://youm7.com/News.asp?NewsID=335500 ]

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

take II


THE BOOK, THE MACHINE, AS I LEAVE HERE – RHETORICALLY

          Abrupt. My retreating hairline grounds me back to this mediocre linearity of procession. My dead cat. My dead aunt. My dying patience. My deadly disclamation of presence. Everything and every which way this starts, it ends – not fading – makes room for another start, a start that ends with the consciousness of its own celibacy. Its intangibility. Its reason. Its involuntary transience. Its inevitable disclamation of presence. That, as I look back, it had been the wrong one. Debatable, as there is no right or wrong. Debatable, as there is no right and wrong. Arguable, as nothing else matters, but my insubstantial phallus as we wrestle in our rhetoric mud with mantras of Platonic verses negating Plato and each other, as nothing really matters, the truth and such – delectable only when arguable.

Au clair de la lune. . . x-rated subtexts


Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami Pierrot,
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot.
Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n'ai plus de feu ;
Ouvre-moi ta porte,
Pour l'amour de Dieu.

Au clair de la lune,
Pierrot répondit :
« Je n'ai pas de plume,
Je suis dans mon lit.
Va chez la voisine,
Je crois qu'elle y est,
Car dans sa cuisine
On bat le briquet. »

Au clair de la lune,
L'aimable lubin
Frappe chez la brune ;
Ell' répond soudain :
« Qui frapp' de la sorte ?
Il dit à son tour :
— Ouvrez votre porte
Pour le Dieu d'Amour ! »

Au clair de la lune,
On n'y voit qu'un peu ;
On chercha la plume,
On chercha le feu.
En cherchant d'la sorte
Je n'sais c'qu'on trouva,
Mais je sais qu'la porte
Sur eux se ferma.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

pg. 82 | Fetish Systems

I want to take my camera and leave here for a while,
I want to accidentally drop my phone and step on it, then
instinctively, elephant stampedes – wild horny elephants –
run towards me, their tusks penetrate the air around me,
fertilize it into wind – elephant stampedes, grey flat feet
munch pieces of the ground, plunge in resonance with this
frequency of self – to step on my phone, for I do not want
to talk to people, and other things – including you. I need
to – now – get lost, with my camera, where we would only
talk of clutches with ticks, I would press its hulk, sweat on
it, then wipe the lens blur with my shorts – shorts I would
take off – alone with my camera – and whatever we do,
stays within my focal, its focal, whatever we do, is mine and
its own – whatever is almost nothing, in my inside, where
nothing synonyms everything.

Monday, January 3, 2011

i'm still here though-

yesterdaie. i went back to trablus. on the way, at 2.30 a.m., two vans decided to race. i was in one. for the first 15 minutes, i did not want to die, then - it didn't really matter.