Darin Nour

A collection of texts Trousers of the Pavements in the Basin of a Snowbound City °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° 1/ Gunpowder = The wider the mouth of the playing opens, the more dangerous the music becomes A certainty: a little wine is forbidden Time shrank for fear of delicacy. 2/Hunting = The chairs' feet are swollen by the hour, while the river is a dead effect. Choosing the temporary hook, jacketed, while the wall is, for the fish's heart, a gentle meal on a liberal plate. 3/ A non-documentary film = The prize is an imitation of the round about the extinguishing of silver about a beginning that never began about the end of the principle about the seat, the notebook about the night-wakers, the pipes about the announcer of currents in the accent of the "hairdresser" about second-rate artists about the screenplay of the blue hat prone to inflammation about the womb, the soundtrack about the night yawning while standing about the scissors of the eye and the whispering of the screen of lashes to the water tension of an inward pre-Islamic gaze, while the field of "dubbing" is an anaesthetic for the fluttering, the gnawing of the eucalyptus. 4/Bermuda language = The grandmother said: I swallowed the river in the tone of a glance. I built the falcons, the spears, the clay, the paper, I pricked the petals of the little words with an era of brides in her chamber, while "super solar" is gasps of waiting, torches on the bank, "the cinema" I appointed the judge of space with the mood of the coat rack while "Heraclitus" is stripped of "cholesterol" even "the Alps", the heater and the smuggled mint with the perfumes of the coastguard of forbidden waters, I did not entrust them gently to the sleep of the jurist and now I have not completed the seasons of menopause while the infant girl, in the "World Cup" of ash, wears embers; she never studied in Plato's lecture hall and never ate the roast of Anna Akhmatova. O my grandmother, a lifetime is a wall, a pencil, while the amulet of the palm, how does it tame the demons of aged "vodka" before the afternoon? 5/An hour of labour pains = Since silence was crucified and its throat cut the sigh has lain in wait for drowning while the straw is the martyrdom of time. 6/A lifetime = A waning-moon glance, all that is left of a laugh. 7/Shortness of breath = The shadow does not sleep, cast out from lying flat, while it stretches out standing up. 8/When flesh is squandered on flesh, the first aid of paper. 9/ The werewolf, when he is hungry, starts by eating his own shoes. 10/Stripped of calm and of sorrow, the "oak" of insomnia. 11/The surface language of dust, mistress of the depths, land of tragedy. 12/ It did not actually happen = He takes a borrowed selfie, the Great Wall of China, like a broker who steals eras, while the compensation is a smile without wrinkles. 14/The muteness of intent = Barefoot, the hand of hesitation crawls over the errand of the eggs 15/A change of underclothes = With time the spirit of the mask falls away, and the mask of the mask lands in the lavatory of time. 16/An open lock = Releasing the kite from its cage is not out of spite, but so that flight may rest from imprisoned weakness. 17/The anklet of night = In my notebook bed I prune the news of my dreams, stripping their order, the screen, the outside, without the "programmes" while what remains of their technology is kept in the fridge, spectres of multiplication for the eggs of the years of want. 18/A straight tail =? With the microphone of the notebook bed about the buttons of distance a "greyhound" dog stood panting with lust barking with lust scratching the tip of its hindquarters with its own structure, with lust even my encyclopaedia, the source of the heater, the mother of flavour, the sun it tore at her refinement with lust this mangy one does not burden the thinking of gunpowder, a prick of vision that strutted out of the jaw, a skewer of revenge, "takeaway" for a shot of air he begs for, chirping in the zip of his chest 19/My breath tightens and the lung is being started up = Between me and myself circumstances and old books take what is in me like a portrait out of the clutter, made to flower by travel and a chewing gum of days that grows and leaves me the accounts of a flash on which I wrote my life after the distortion and an autumn-spring of grape bottles whose drinking is postponed, and a thick breath my mother washes with the "Dettol" of her patience and a night that chatters above the river, eating morsels of blazing snow to "jazz" music. Between me and myself a day with boiled feet steals its own life, tied to the bull of "kerosene" while the gears of "Einstein" are the volcano of the imprisoned heart Between me and myself a cry of a wave on which toys once broke, wrapped up one day the sea is dead at the world's cry, how does innocence resist treachery, and with the weeping of mothers the guide, the atlas of history, melts. 20/About the snowbound city = About there it is the scarecrow and the tins of scattered time, dusty robes with the innocence of a lung. About there the astrologers are worthy of those whims, films of the feathered kind, while the fires are set loose by the "handcuff" of the shadow of smoke. About there the hidden river shudders with the embers of fingers, tossed about by the first copy of the album photograph in the shelter of the wall, how do we salute nothingness with ash. About there writing in steam and the rescue encircled by the structure of the feather, and daughters no water and no womb gave birth to. About there a "sketch" revolution that agreed on nothing but the sweat of the sky, gazing to feel the neck of the rainbow; while he is unaware it colours its maps from his skin, the fire, a painting of his fur whose brush is the songs of Yannis Ritsos, and a quarter-tone of the strings of Abeer Nemaa, tender in embalming with the pain of voting; the coffin baptises it with rolls of honey and the ring of bread with salt, while the folding of the page in the notebook bed is the language of our peoples without an invocation, how do we sprinkle blood with paradise before the slaughter? About here the walker in it about the distance, the bewilderment and the procrastination about the eye of the soul about the seasons at the age of the petal of the hour and the salt, the order, "McDonald's", the index to sugar, the first welcome the renaissance gives to the spirit of the tulip, and the last thing the river swept from the trust of the silt. Arriving at the brink of the dice, and the luck struck down by the hornet of will. 21/The creaking of doors = Planting the poor in the land of keys is like bringing down the painting with the anvil of the nail every moment has its melting and every boot has a stomach in which the cocktail of hunger, submissiveness, the liquidity of distraction and the racket of clinging on is cooked, while pearls are squandered in the courtyards of the nebula, the occupied countries of flesh the driver of the senses, "Big Ben", curses the birth of delay hope has no record but the tipping of the dominoes beneath the throne of God and silence quickly builds its station despite the soul pouring into it like the surge of waves in a drowning man. 22/ Yesterday she said to me: what has become of the taste of supper before the table is cleared. Da Vinci, the talkative, smiled. We live on patience, the fruits of wisdom, we swA collection of texts 
Trousers of the Pavements in the Basin of a Snowbound City 
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

1/ Gunpowder 
=
The wider 
the mouth of the playing opens
the more dangerous
 the music becomes
A certainty: a little wine
is forbidden
 time shrank
for fear of delicacy.

2/Hunting
=
The chairs are swollen
 in the feet
by the hour, while the river is a dead
effect.
Choosing the temporary hook
jacketed
 while the wall is, for the heart of
the fish, a gentle meal
on a liberal plate.

3/ A non-documentary film
=
The prize is an imitation of the round
about the extinguishing of silver
about a beginning that never began
about the end of the principle 
about the seat, the notebook
about the night-wakers, the pipes
about the announcer of currents in the accent of the "hairdresser"
about second-rate artists
about the screenplay of the blue hat prone
to inflammation
about the womb, the soundtrack
about the night yawning while standing
about the scissors of the eye and the whispering of the screen of lashes to the water tension of an inward pre-Islamic gaze, while
the field of "dubbing" is an anaesthetic for the fluttering, the gnawing of the eucalyptus.

4/Bermuda language
=
The grandmother said
I swallowed the river in the tone of a glance.
I built the falcons, the spears, the clay, the paper,
I pricked the petals of the little words with an era of brides
in her chamber, while "super solar" is gasps
of waiting, torches on the bank, "the cinema"
I appointed the judge of space with the mood of the coat rack
 while "Heraclitus" is stripped of "cholesterol"
even "the Alps", the heater and the smuggled mint
with the perfumes of the coastguard of forbidden waters, I did not entrust them
gently to the sleep of the jurist
and now I have not completed the seasons of menopause
while the infant girl, in the "World Cup" of ash,
wears embers; she never studied in Plato's lecture hall
and never ate the roast of Anna Akhmatova.
O my grandmother
a lifetime is a wall, a pencil, while the amulet
of the palm, how does it tame the demons of "vodka"
aged before the afternoon.

5/An hour of labour pains
=
Since silence was crucified 
and its throat cut
the sigh has lain in wait 
for drowning
while the straw
 is the martyrdom of time.

6/A lifetime
=
A waning-moon glance
all that is left of a laugh.

7/Shortness of breath
=
The shadow does not sleep, cast out from lying flat
while it stretches out standing up.

8/When
flesh is squandered on flesh
 the first aid of paper.

9/ The werewolf, when he is hungry
starts by eating his own shoes.

 10/Stripped 
of calm and of sorrow
 the "oak" of insomnia.

11/The surface language of dust
mistress of the depths, land of tragedy.

12/ It did not actually happen
=
He takes a borrowed selfie
the Great Wall of China
 like a broker who steals eras 
while 
the compensation is a smile without wrinkles.

14/The muteness of intent
=
Barefoot it crawls
 over the errand of the eggs, the hand of hesitation

15/A change of underclothes
=
With time the spirit of the mask falls away
 and the mask of the mask lands in the lavatory of time.

16/An open lock
=
Releasing the kite from its cage
is not out of spite, but so that
flight may rest from imprisoned weakness.

17/The anklet of night
= 
In my notebook bed 
I prune the news of my dreams
 stripping their order
the screen, the outside, without the "programmes"
while what remains of their technology is kept in the fridge
spectres of multiplication for the eggs
of the years of want.

18/A straight tail
=
? With the microphone of the notebook bed
about the buttons of distance
a "greyhound" dog stood
 panting with lust
barking with lust
scratching the tip of its hindquarters with its own structure, with lust
even my encyclopaedia, the source of the heater, the mother of flavour
the sun
 it tore at her refinement with lust
this mangy one does not burden the thinking of gunpowder, a prick
of vision that strutted out of the jaw, a skewer of revenge
"takeaway" for a shot of air he begs for, chirping in the zip of his chest

19/My breath tightens and the lung is being started up
=
Between me and myself
circumstances and old books take what is in me like a portrait out of the clutter, made to flower by travel
and a chewing gum of days that grows and leaves me the accounts of a flash
on which I wrote my life after the distortion
and an autumn-spring of grape bottles whose
drinking is postponed, and a thick breath washed by
my mother with the "Dettol" of her patience 
and a night that chatters above the river, eating to
"jazz" music morsels of blazing snow.
Between me and myself
a day with boiled feet 
steals its own life, tied to the bull of "kerosene"
while the gears of "Einstein" are the volcano of the imprisoned heart
 Between me and myself
a cry of a wave on which broke
toys wrapped up one day
the sea is dead at the world's cry, how does innocence
resist treachery, and with the weeping of mothers the guide, the atlas of history, melts.

20/About the snowbound city
=
About there
 it is the scarecrow and the tins of scattered time 
dusty robes
with the innocence of a lung.

About there
the astrologers are worthy of those whims
films of the feathered kind
while the fires are set loose by
the "handcuff" of the shadow of smoke.

About there 
the hidden river shudders with the embers
of fingers, tossed about by the first
copy of the album photograph
in the shelter of the wall
how do we salute nothingness with ash.

About there
writing in steam and the rescue
encircled by the structure of the feather
and daughters no water gave birth to
and no womb.

About there
 a "sketch" revolution
 that agreed
on nothing but the sweat of the sky, gazing
to feel the neck of the rainbow
while he is unaware it colours its maps
from his skin, the fire
a painting of his fur whose brush is the songs of Yannis Ritsos
and a quarter-tone of the strings of Abeer Nemaa 
 tender in embalming with the pain of voting 
the coffin baptises it with rolls
of honey and the ring of bread with salt, while
the folding of the page in the notebook bed
is the language of our peoples without an invocation
how do we sprinkle
blood with paradise before the slaughter?

About here
 the walker in it
about the distance, the bewilderment and the procrastination
about the eye of the soul
about the seasons at the age of the petal of the hour
and the salt, the order, "McDonald's", the index to sugar
the first welcome the renaissance gives to the spirit of the tulip
and the last thing the river swept from the trust of the silt.
 Arriving at the brink of the dice
and the luck struck down by the hornet
of will.

21/The creaking of doors
=
Planting the poor in the land of keys
is like bringing down the painting with the anvil of the nail
every moment has its melting
and every boot has a stomach in which is cooked
the cocktail of hunger, submissiveness, the liquidity of distraction
the racket of clinging on, while pearls are squandered in the courtyards
of the nebula, the occupied countries of flesh
the driver of the senses, "Big Ben", curses the birth of delay
hope has no record but the tipping of the dominoes
beneath the throne of God
and silence quickly builds its station
despite the soul pouring into it
like the surge of waves in a drowning man.

22/
Yesterday she said to me: what has become of the taste of supper
before the table is cleared 
Da Vinci, the talkative, smiled
 we live on patience
the fruits of wisdom
we swallow the collagen of relief
 like mystics with nothing
the windmills, breath within breath.

 
 Darin Nour
October 2018allow the collagen of relief like mystics with nothing the windmills, breath within breath. Darin Nour October 2018