The harpies of Cape Bojador

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1) "Chanson Berbère de la mort"


...There is a niche where I fall some nights. Is pure blue oxygen this zone of death.
Among the ozone I saw the iron Jesus of the Kabyles walk on the meander.
Among the ozone I didn't see anything; into this niche.
...And some nights I wonder where are you...






2) "Days in the niche"


The streets of Casbah smell fumigated this noon: under a sun of Pier Paolo Pasolini, the silver mountain with the pink caryatid throws a shade of death over the minaret where is the prepuce of the prophet Mohammed...a perfume of fried damasks makes the night turn up violently...
...je suis mort de douleur over hydrocephalus birds: everything is so sad in this place...






3) "The harpies of Cape Bojador"


...Now my descent is madness into the semi-circular cage: nothing is as it seems in this niche; my throat gets husky cursing it, crying out loud...the walls just give me the black marble echoing in maelstroms, like the laugh of the idiot, that never, ever ends...
...Going deeper into this box, the sky gets opened suddenly over the Atlantic dominion of the Spanish Sahara, home of the harpies of Cape Bojador and their mirrors which I saw in dreams, among the terror of the childhood, the fears which are transmitted generation to generation through the blood...and my own abnormality.
The harpies of Cape Bojador fly, leaving an aroma of butane unto the Atlantic Dorsal, which opens itself to the transatlantic planes...their yellow-wrinkled breasts drip calostro over the horrid Molochs of copper, abandoned there by the Visigoths, like collapsed automata...my ancestors used to make tonsures in their flesh, they used to chase Romans to devour them...they were the last cannibals of Europe: my karma is bad since all the eternity, my flag is the no-flag, my love is the no-love.
But if a fulmar will sing one day over the cape, he will sing for you.
I swear it.






4) "Algerian sun"


Baby...I belong to the territory of the sombre Occident, I'm the black witches, I'm degraded blood: mirrors, mirrors: mirrorized harpies reflecting that blue-blind sky on me.
Now des hétaires rest their buttocks and their humid sex on the mosaics, exhaust of strange love.
They are like those filles magnetiques de la Dordogne: it's the moment when Venus appears hydraulical over Malta: la belle shines like a vagina of chrome annihilated by the vanillism.
...But some nights, a Sun-navel shines into the niche; and the ricochets of the wind, whistle out your name with denaturalized noises: is a mystery what happens in there; because no one can get inside in those moments.

Not even I.




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