ARABIAN NIGHTS OF SURREALISM/Abdul Kader El Janabi/ Collages by / Mohsen Elbelasy and Ghadah Kamal

Abdul Kader El Janabi

ARABIAN NIGHTS OF SURREALISM

THE SECOND ISSUE OF THE ROOM SURREALIST MAGAZINE / FRE PDF /DOWNLOADING LINKS

13 JAN 2022

La chambre 2
Deuxième numéro
version française

الغرفة ٢
العدد الثاني
النسخة الفرنسية

RÊ_PLATFORM

SULFUR_SURREALIST_JUNGLE

LA_BELLE_INUTILE_EDITIONS

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Free pdf

The Second Issue of the Room surrealist Magazine

Surrealism and Africa

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Covers by / Zazie

A RUBBER TEAT FOR MY PARENTS: According to my mother, I was circumcised by a heavenly host and was very beautiful child before the typhoid fever got at me. This incident gave rise to new blood in my memory: in the  Moullah ( a first school, where Moslem children must learn to recite the Koran by heart) , I was unable to retain even the first lines of the holy  Book. The mistress of the Moullah told my parents that I was a useless, brainless person and there was absolutly no need to send me to any school whatever. My parents were convinced. Not feeling at ease seeing me staying at home at the age of eleven years and being idle, they had to send  me to a mixed primary school, which cost nothing all the same. At the end of the year, the Minister of Education awarded me the prize for being top of the form, which was the case in the second year, the third and so on. Astounded, my family began to doubt the religious label imposed on me by the Moullah. At any rate, my family was elated about finally having such a brilliant child at home. They bestowed complete freedom uopn me, my brothers and sisters recieved harsh punishment for any bad conduct they showed; sometimes their bodies were branded with red-hot skewers. I alone was pardoned, even if I had attempted to go along with adolescent hooligans to derelict sites, screwing donkeys, cats and homeless children, which was the custom  in Iraq. The reason behind forgiving me was, for them an investment in the future. For years I became a subject to talk about. I remember that one day there was a heated discussion between my older brother and my father. Neither was able to read or write. According to my brother the best thing for me would be to study economics in the hope of becoming, for example, a Minister of Finance. For my father however, a better idea was to become a teacher, since there was more job-security than with a government post. Next door, I was reading Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. I felt deep sorrow for these poor people, seeing them build sandcastles in the wind. For, in as much as I started school late in life, I left it very early, ” from the most direct way possible: the window”, as Harpo Marx so correctly put it. These poor people didn’t get what the mistress of the Moullah meant when she said that I was a good-for-nothing. It was true that I was useless for Allah, the fatherland and the family.

*

A frizzy helmet spirited the bib of authority from my doorless childhood.

*

The poem gnashes. Meanings are gluttons for punishment. Poets should not retreat if darkness evades the lamp-light. Ths script leapt into another mind.

*

The darkest hour is that after the dawn.

*

Evening was falling blondly on earth which stretches out for insects when I had to run for my life towards the flabby roofs of my laughter.

*

Smell is woman’s prick.Language is man’s hole.

*

TREATISE ON PALESTINIANS: and it came to pass, that the Palestinians becamethe Jews of our age, but without the Kabala.

( Exodus : 41. 1. 1. )

*

Knowledge is a restless virgin until poetry negates it.

*

There is no one more radical than the writer who never wrote.

*

The screen of life is already smeared, no longer draws us. 

*

ORGANS WITHOUT SEX: What a Sunday, it was beautiful like a banana :  the street was brimming over with vagabonds sooner or later disappearing in its dark corners; with bookshops whose shelves looked like vaginas ready to be despoiled; with pubs where drunks sometimes drool like soot drifting with galagtic ejaculation. 

*

Sexuality is what its defenders lack.

*

LOVEBATION IN A PUB: The Arabs  designate the virile member variously as : Jingler/ Pigeon/ Untameable/ Liberator/ Creeper/ Quencher/ Withdrawer/ Knocker/ Sleeper/ Twister/ Tailor/ Stumbler/ Bald-head/ Rubber/ Bashful-one/ Seeker/ Shamless-one/ Smith’sbellows/ Flabby one …etc.

    Thus I launched into conversation with an Irish waitress. Most of these names need no explanation except Withdrawer ! She exclaimed while staring into my palm in the hope of reading it.

    Well it is called the Withdrawer because, according to Sheikh Nefzawi, when it approaches a vulva which has been deprived for a long time of coitus and which it wishes to enter, the vulva will say ( influenced by the violence of its  amorous desire) : ” yes on one condition… that if you  enter, you will not withdraw until you have ejaculated so many times! The member replies : ” I promise not to withdraw until I have done it three times more than you ask “. Once entered, the intensity of the vulva’s heat activates the enjoyment; it moves up and down, seeking the perfect pleasure which this movement procures alternative rubbing against the vulva and the womb. When the ejaculation takes place, the member seeks to withdraw, which makes the vulva say: ” Oh , liar, why do you Withdraw? You ought to be called the lying Withdrawer.

The Irish waitress moaned in lust.Laughter broken years ago shyly returned to her mouth, as if my provoking hand had laidupon her pubes.I felt her mouth slacken, opening and closing like the vulva of a mare on heat.

*

Reading and reading over again. What a bloody jungle of biological need, this benign tumor of the mind!

*

Only bad books could be read from cover to cover. Otherwise imagination wouldn’t sleep.

*

I walk adrift the whole day long. And before I sleep , I draw poets nibbling the sun’s black teat.

*

A WORD FOR THE FUSSER-ABOUT: Well, fusser-about, surrelism’s real destiny, like that of any radical movement in the history of ideas, is to be the property of everyone, vulgarised, merchandised or transacted. For, ” no idea”, Adorno said, ” can escape the supermarket”. Clinging to surrealism, dead or alive, is not the right track nor good salesmanship. Not to day at least, where the superlmarket itself started to escape the idea.

In a world  full of a multi-faceted adherents, to be a renegade is a sign of health.

*

Poets are drifters in turmoil. 

*

COMMITMENT : Once uopn tome, I had an appointmenet with a friend of mine, a one-eyed communist called Djabbar. I suggested seeing Doctor Caligari. He walked with me as far as the cinema and he didn’t go in. He waited for me in a bar till the film had ended. When I came back I told him that he had missed a good remake. He laughed about that, and said that I was brain-washed, and had to rinse my brain out. I didn’t get what he meant by brain-washed. We walked together, I thinking there may be a chemist’s selling some potion to rinse our brains out with. We had done a lot of walking always on our guard when, all of a sudden, we found ourselves in a front of the Russian Cultural Centre which was situated on the Abou Nowas riverbank  in Bagdad, they were giving a free show. He told me : Here man is where you’ll get your brain rinsed out. The idea appealed to me, so in we went. At the very moment the film started, a need to relieve myself came over me. I was stricken with diarrhoea throughout the whole show.

*

The ebb of an idea resides in its flow.

*

In memory of Karl Kraus: All mankind’s defects are investments. Journalists save them for a rainy day.

*

FOREWORD: After being swayed by all that is unutterable, I left the enclosure of the day, voyaging towarsds the warm regions of my sleep where a storm of sneezes fragmented the palm of my mouth, breaking into inner exteriors hindering my reach: of animals imagining themselves flushed with dream, of nights at a standstill like conversation, of monologues underlining the daybreak of history, of sensation writhing with the desire of fresh discoveries, of the avowed enemies of reality , and of blood fortified with insights I write.

*

The citizens of Koenisberg knew that it was exactly half past three when Immanuel Kant, in his grey coat, left house door and went to the lime tree avenue, so they regulate their watches by him. The opposite prevails today: it is the philosopher who regulates his

watch by the masses and so he regulates his discours according to the tribute of the clock of the town.

The philosopher’s walk, as the citizens of Koenigsberg called it, thus ended in a standstill walk .

*

What a life littered with empty glasses and stubbed-out cigarettes!

*

Sensitivity secrets the body. Books vulgarise man. 

*

History is a shambles, with windows broken and openings wrenched off their hinges.

*

To see the ugliness of our era, all you need is to retain a few lines from Breton’s poetry by heart, to carry any of Adorno’s books and go on a tour of this town; you will see it unleashed against itself.

THE SMELL OF WRITING: In the Autumn of 1974, Franklin Rosemont wrote to ask me to translate some of my Arabic poems into English for publication in Arsenal n°3. I was living in an attic with an Austrian girlfriend. Though our bodies were our real common language, English was used as our towel. My bedside book was The Oxford English -Arabic Dictionary of Current Usage , edited by N. S. Doniach. My girlfriend was very pretty with nice nipples that I sucked a lot. Man Ray’s famous portrait of André Breton was hanging on the wall. It wasn’t reified in our consciousness. On the contrary , it was just a portrait of a friend whom we thought we would meet later on in a bar. The attic was small without a window to be knocked on, nor through which to see a man cut in two. It had only books, a bed and a camping stove. My girlfriend renewed her caresses on my member. I was toying with her sex. She spread her legs, and all of a sudden we were drowned in rivers of juice. After every spasm of relief, I picked up the dictionary  in order to peruse it. Words never make love, not even in a dream, as the situationists thought. They were cluttered in here, imprisoned within cells of a memory given to them by the compiler. A thick cloud filled the attic;my girlfriend fell into a trance, shrieked, and sperm flowed marvellously. Once the cloud had dispersed, I spotted idioms , nouns, verbs, adverbs etc. spurted out over a white sheet of paper. I knew then that they weren’t the adequate ones.I could in no possible way translate my poems. Instead of translating these molecules of mine, I decided to paraphrase them, thereby tossing them back into the crucible of new ones.

*

Night goes foundering at daylight like a fall of eyelids breaking out of laughable pigeons 

*

a revolving feather mingles with a laconic flare .

*

What a bloody social dizziness is to skim over beneath smiling sunlights of our ambitions.

*

I stroll on the sidewalks of  red-handed lips: lost languages are in sight.

*

One of these days after stealing a march on reincarnation I will run in a glove announcing the birth of darkness that pulverizes the gloom of light girding my self for renewed laziness.

*

A mirror is almost a fragment of the void which reflects us nearly every minute.

*

Were it true what Marina Tsvetaieva once said and Paul Celan brought to light: that, in this hyperchristian world, all poets are jews!

*

 In the eyes of the fish: Earth is heaven.

*

 In the presence of the moment, history has no value. 

*

As a matter of act, I do not command English, nor any other language. I have always had an Oedipius complex with my mother tongue. That is why I talk broken languages. I am afraid of hitting the commander of them on the nose.

*

Silence is a jewel God awarded his affectionate mother: Nature.

*

  Myth is no longer a false premise when it contrives to clean its intestines with the Creator.

*

I feel indepted to Adorno for crystallising my scorn for these three imposters of a life that really  can live: Luckacs, Brecht and Jean Paul Sartre.

*

Mystery becomes legible to the one whose eye criticizes the seen.

*

Non-revolutionary talk comes from people who find no other use in language but to make themselves revolutionaries.

*

Dedicating a poem to someone is a way of injecting him with the elixir of Narcissus.

*

If you want to make it new, age it.

*

The unborn child died before he could dribble on the bib of Authority, his last testement: the scandal is over.

*

As the nightengales were gathering in my room deciding to hole their hands once and for all, they turned into whores. I am keeping them now saddled at the door of my tomb.

*

What is not really invisible, is not visible at all.

*

A true poet has no favourite but himself.

*

Words speak louder than their action.

*

One has to say something when he is called 

One always has to say something when he even is not called

One really has to say something whether one is called or not

One is always called and about to say something

One is really saying something to be called

*

Why bother defending an idea the truer it is the more crooks it generates.

*

Turn out the light, you may catch a spirit at large.

In this awkward age, clumsiness is necessary.

*

Revolution has long since fucked off. Its lovers are left in a state of  sluggish orgasm. 

*

Behind every scream, there exists a domestic animal which likes to have a haircut.

*

Love poems are always subversive: they bring a doting couple to blows.

*

My fatherland once was obliged to give his mother’s clitoris a surreptitious look through the keyhole of independence.

*

The lightning sooths its tongue like a womb revising the latest edition of the unborn.

*

WITHIN DOORS : If you happen to be at death’s door, you don’t need to get in by the back door , nor to play at someone’s door. You only need to knock , and it opens into you . For no doornail can be out-of-door.

*

“All minds quote” Emerson contended,”…we quote not only books and proverbs, but arts, sciences, religion, customs, and laws; we quote temples and houses, tables and chairs by imitation”. Indeed . I know a man who used to visit the brothel every day in the hope of  quoting  pleasure as an example of hitting it off with his wife.

*

Between me and this falling world a distance of bubbling summers

leaping like a viscous puzzle that disappears into a wave of laughing beam.

*

What is good in someone’s poetry is that it lacks his own conception of poetry.

*

A hint to Serge Guilbaut:  In the written dark,the philosopher’s stone loses its roughness, becomes round, filling itself out at the side of the lamp-shade, where poets tinkle their bells.

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