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YOUSSEF RAKHA the tea boy:Without a Revolution, life is unbearable Did you know Ibn Farid said the death of lovers is a happy life and murder is preferable to abandonment The sad thing is that as there is no change without massacres so there is no time without waiting, are you familiar with angels? Angels? the white-haired man sneers, rubbing a bald head like a boulder and staring pityingly, he lends me five pounds A lion bearing a moleskin I seek out one of many lionesses (a lioness, where I come from, is another word for slut) to tell her that the Revolution is not in Tahrir Square And savouring a frappé riding on the back of a smoothie after the third double espresso at a major outlet of Cafe Cilantro I scream at an adolescent Catholic from behind the screen of my laptop: There is no such thing as penis envy! From Dokky to Tahrir many times in the company of a young poet also from Tanta the failure of our efforts confirmed when my lover, bereaved, does not answer the phone and while Zizo dallied with that Jordanian girl the night my lover called to tell me, was her calamity the convent of our togetherness? When she picks up at last I convince my poet friend there is a sit- in for real in my own room, we set out unarmed and in Bermuda shorts he follows me on bare knees past the same bedside table, a snooper planted among the misled young Throngs of protesters are gathered round Tahrir’s iconic Stone Cake now turned to an old shoe sole, exactly as we were Matchbox tanks and F-16s like pins – insolent marauders – between the mattress boards and the sheets snipers by night We copulate with the pillows after I tell my friend God is in the rail tracks: No revolution should have free wifi I imagine my lover kneeling before me in her black blouse, our grief heavenly as I come in her throat and when my mother wakes us in the morning I do not resist, I see the maid holding the Hoover with the republic’s Eagle on it 36 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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YOUSSEF RAKHA I see the republic’s flag itself fluttering above the heads of aliens and I know we will not defeat Israel My friend furious with the sleep in his eyes while the Hoover trunk slips under the bed When the mops and soap appear I have trouble keeping him off the maid: No point raping her now! Only the sound of the Hoover while he sobs, no blood or iron, the parquet floor is empty and clean and where the books of poetry used to be on the shelves are bottles of Dettol and Pledge, sponges and neat, trellissed towels Suddenly my bed exhales to an armoured vehicle siren, the sheets catch fire and the mattress burns The table morphs into a fearsome lion roaring and my friend has disappeared, the writing on the wall: A PANTHER WHICH DURING SEX EJACULATES EVERY TWENTY MINUTES, ITS TONGUE COARSER THAN SANDPAPER O mournful lover, giver of the terminal orgasm: Death has knotted our lives I have seen the comers and the goers, kissed the Wahhabi beards and ran from the blade-wielding Remnants on the Metro steps I have carried the Saint into the darkness of the grave simply to reassure your father, nodded off between two compartments of the Cairo-wending train I have found you beneath my bed with the army of my mother in the room, I have surrendered my neck to the mouth of the lion. Reworked by the author from the original Arabic BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 37

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YOUSSEF RAKHA

the tea boy:Without a Revolution, life is unbearable Did you know Ibn Farid said the death of lovers is a happy life and murder is preferable to abandonment The sad thing is that as there is no change without massacres so there is no time without waiting, are you familiar with angels? Angels? the white-haired man sneers, rubbing a bald head like a boulder and staring pityingly, he lends me five pounds

A lion bearing a moleskin I seek out one of many lionesses (a lioness, where I come from, is another word for slut) to tell her that the Revolution is not in Tahrir Square And savouring a frappé riding on the back of a smoothie after the third double espresso at a major outlet of Cafe Cilantro I scream at an adolescent Catholic from behind the screen of my laptop: There is no such thing as penis envy!

From Dokky to Tahrir many times in the company of a young poet also from Tanta the failure of our efforts confirmed when my lover, bereaved, does not answer the phone and while Zizo dallied with that Jordanian girl the night my lover called to tell me, was her calamity the convent of our togetherness? When she picks up at last I convince my poet friend there is a sit-

in for real in my own room, we set out unarmed and in Bermuda shorts he follows me on bare knees past the same bedside table, a snooper planted among the misled young Throngs of protesters are gathered round Tahrir’s iconic Stone

Cake now turned to an old shoe sole, exactly as we were Matchbox tanks and F-16s like pins – insolent marauders –

between the mattress boards and the sheets snipers by night

We copulate with the pillows after I tell my friend God is in the rail tracks: No revolution should have free wifi I imagine my lover kneeling before me in her black blouse, our grief heavenly as I come in her throat and when my mother wakes us in the morning I do not resist, I

see the maid holding the Hoover with the republic’s Eagle on it

36 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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