The sister’s Saturday

(to my incest)

This Saturday

Love unbuttoned her cheesecloth chemise

On the ground the buttons rattled

We rushed to bite her breasts of smalt

We panted, isn’t known if we really wanted this

Some kisses with alcohol echoes

While the fingers tumble – panic

in the whirling marsh

of your underwear’s elastic

We have closed our eyes (and looking at times)

Closed, no idea of how much I suffer

The wonder pleases me, you could cope to not despise me

We act as drunk to forget it

The buttons were poorly undone like when the lights turn on

We call to the taxis of love, what is its name today?

Kill the fatigue

This is what love is

What I am giving you for love’s sake

You retract your belly, the breath is ended

You curb the hand that pushes through the lumber of your hair

Yes, there, at your not forsaken Death Valley

There, where are rumbling the ranges of the cowboys

I would have wished to be you

To halt, to hinder the other’s hand, those fingers

As olives in a bough

Then when untangled, to divide my sweat drops

Like flute keys

From the sliver of my heart inside the lap

To rekindle my rare water

Saturday. The love’s bell struck

Struck as in “struck down”

From its belfry to the ground

So fell the teeth gnawed rope

And the bell ringer fell too

With his hands bloated

For the others’ celebrations

ERVIN HATIBI (1994)

log on

Everything before taking place, should have the chance to not occur at all, to don’t take place. This suspense is essential, like the negative in the photo. It is this negative which enables the photo to have a meaning, although a false or constructed meaning; it is the negative which enables it to take at least place — never the first time, always the second. For things have meaning only the second time, like in the second coming of Jesus, baptism in anabaptism, form in anamorphosis. Hence the fantasy that there will be a second meeting, another chance, in another world or pervious life.

There it is never any definitive end to a relationship. All that has not been resolved, all that has not been said, must be there again in a second existence . It is in this reprise as Kierkegaard would put it, that the deepest pleasure lies: that of vanquishing time by the play of second meeting. All essential events play a second time(death alone happens only once, and is not replayable). But this second time time is also the last, and every event “reprised”, symbolically replayed, brings us closer to death. Once all events have been recapitulated in memory and cancelled by that evocation, one’s destiny is sealed and the end is nigh.