Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Abdelilah Mouissi

Jack Kerouac: It seems I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.

O friend Kerouac, I want to learn from you a little about the bohemian kingdom.
I guess I now gathered enough determination to visit a priest who’ll tell me his opinion about the idle things I am writing.
I’ll take part in a demonstration tomorrow, and I’ll take my Sweetie with me. Love and politics are fierce lovers.
Writing my own biography makes me laugh. My biography is what people claim to know about me, not what I really am.
What goes on in my head is more like science fiction. Sure, there’s an unexpected lapse in the timing of my thoughts that causes confusion in the way I handle facts. I have every reason to hate my faith. I don’t know what exactly makes people fall in love, and I don’t know what makes me often choose sadness, insomnia, pallor of pupils, aphthous fever, Mughal measles, and hemophilia. This has nothing to do with the wrong decisions I took all my life. It's more like ordering a poor meal in a five-star restaurant.
Love is actually entertaining.
I might feel the urge to use the phone when I need to sort out my emtional and political intricacies. I might feel the urge to install dental braces in my mouth to shout as ferociously as I can of how sick I am of me. I might feel the urge to dial up my sweetie’s number on WhatsApp to tell her that I miss her aberrant eyes and international laughter.
I often cause things to become worse before they even begin. I think I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.
I know when you cry and when you pretend to do so.
I’m flaming up with joy. I missed all opportunities.
I resemble striptease dancers when I am writing. I find the idea of transsexualism more like the idea of a one-party system. I am afraid the world will become a woman.
I am much preoccupied these days with falling upon luck.
Who knows, I might meet you again in the shape of another woman.
When I’m done writing a dirty poem, I feel as if I’m done having wild sex, as if I’m shot with a narcotic atomizer, so I relax, I relax and fall asleep, fast asleep, worried sleep.
It’s Jack Kerouac calling me from the afterlife:
Your year will be very balanced, and your hands will combine together the passion for fire, the sensitivity of water, the flexibility of earth, the diplomacy of air, and the apex of poetry
Neptune will bring you imagination and will bring opportunities to feel worthless and full of nonsense.
Uranus will surprise you and bring you idiot energy.
Mercury and Mars will impact your heart and mind and spleen.
You are a slut, you Daily Horoscope!
I am now laughing here in the café.
Sleep ‘Kerouac’, and let me sleep.

جاك كيرواك: يبدو أني في حاجة إلى شهادة أهلية عاطفية.

جاك كيرواك: يبدو أني في حاجة إلى شهادة أهلية عاطفية.


يفترض أن أكون قد حظيت الآن بما يكفي من العزيمة لزيارة كاهن كي أستشيره في الخزعبلات التي أكتب.
سأشارك في التظاهرة غدا. وسأصحب معي حبيبتي. الحب والسياسة عاشقان لذودان.
كتابة سيرتي الذاتية أمر يصيبني بالضحك. سيرتي هي ما يدعيه الناس بشأني وليس ما أعيشه.
ما يدور في رأسي أشبه بالخيال العلمي. أكيد أن هناك فلتة ما تحصل في توقيت تفكيري تضطرني إلى الخلط بين الحقائق. لدي كل المبررات كي أكره ملتي. لا أعرف بالضبط ما الذي يدفع إلى الوقوع في الحب. ولا أعرف ما الذي يدعوني مرارا إلى اختيار الحزن والأرق وشحوب الحذقتين والحمى القلاعية والحصبة المغولية والهيموفيليا.
ليس للأمر أية علاقة بما اتخذنه من قرارات فاسدة طيلة حياتي. الأمر أشبه باختيار طبق بائس في مطعم من خمسة نجوم.
الحب فعلا مسلٍ.
قد أضطر الى الاتصال هاتفيا حين أحتاج إلى توضيح تعقيداتي العاطفية وتعقيداتي السياسية. قد أضطر إلى تركيب مقوم أسنان لفمي كي أصرخ بكل الشراسة الممكنة بأني قرفت مني. قد أضطر إلى تركيب رقم حبيبتي على الواتساب كي أخبرها أني اشتقت أن أنظر إلى عينيها الزائغتين وضحكنها الدولية.
غالبا ما أجعل الأمور تسوء قبل أن تبدأ. يبدو أني في حاجة إلى شهادة أهلية عاطفية.
أعرفك حين تبكين وحين تتظاهرين بالبكاء.
أستشيط فرحا الآن. فقد أضعت كل فرص استرجاع الحب القديم.
أُشبه راقصات التعري حين أكتب. أجد فكرة التحول الجنسي أشبه بفكرة الحزب الواحد. أخاف أن يصبح العالم امرأة.
منشغل كثيرا هذه الأيام بشأن العثور على الحظ. من يدري فقد ألقاك ثانية في صورة امرأة اخرى.
حين أنهي قصيدة ماسخة أشعر كما لو أنني انتهيت من مضاجعة صاخبة، كما لو أنني قُذفت ببخاخ مخدر فأرتاح، أرتاح وأنام، أنام عميقا . . . أنام مضطرب البال.
هذا "جاك كيرواك" يهاتفني من الآخرة:
ستكون سنتك متوازنة جدا وسيجتمع بين يديك شغف النار وحساسية الماء ومرونة الأرض ودبلوماسية الهواء وافتراء الشعر.
نبتون سيمنحك الخيال ويسهل لك كل الفرص التي ستشعرك بأنك تافه مليء بالبرازيط.
أورانوس سيفاجئك ويمدك بالطاقة البليدة.
عطارد والمريخ سيكون لديهما تأثيرا على قلبك وعقلك وطحالك.
أنت فاسقة أيتها الأبراج اليومية.
أضحك الآن وأنا في المقهى.
نم يا "كيرواك" ودعني أنام.
Close

Jack Kerouac: It seems I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.

O friend Kerouac, I want to learn from you a little about the bohemian kingdom.
I guess I now gathered enough determination to visit a priest who’ll tell me his opinion about the idle things I am writing.
I’ll take part in a demonstration tomorrow, and I’ll take my Sweetie with me. Love and politics are fierce lovers.
Writing my own biography makes me laugh. My biography is what people claim to know about me, not what I really am.
What goes on in my head is more like science fiction. Sure, there’s an unexpected lapse in the timing of my thoughts that causes confusion in the way I handle facts. I have every reason to hate my faith. I don’t know what exactly makes people fall in love, and I don’t know what makes me often choose sadness, insomnia, pallor of pupils, aphthous fever, Mughal measles, and hemophilia. This has nothing to do with the wrong decisions I took all my life. It's more like ordering a poor meal in a five-star restaurant.
Love is actually entertaining.
I might feel the urge to use the phone when I need to sort out my emtional and political intricacies. I might feel the urge to install dental braces in my mouth to shout as ferociously as I can of how sick I am of me. I might feel the urge to dial up my sweetie’s number on WhatsApp to tell her that I miss her aberrant eyes and international laughter.
I often cause things to become worse before they even begin. I think I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.
I know when you cry and when you pretend to do so.
I’m flaming up with joy. I missed all opportunities.
I resemble striptease dancers when I am writing. I find the idea of transsexualism more like the idea of a one-party system. I am afraid the world will become a woman.
I am much preoccupied these days with falling upon luck.
Who knows, I might meet you again in the shape of another woman.
When I’m done writing a dirty poem, I feel as if I’m done having wild sex, as if I’m shot with a narcotic atomizer, so I relax, I relax and fall asleep, fast asleep, worried sleep.
It’s Jack Kerouac calling me from the afterlife:
Your year will be very balanced, and your hands will combine together the passion for fire, the sensitivity of water, the flexibility of earth, the diplomacy of air, and the apex of poetry
Neptune will bring you imagination and will bring opportunities to feel worthless and full of nonsense.
Uranus will surprise you and bring you idiot energy.
Mercury and Mars will impact your heart and mind and spleen.
You are a slut, you Daily Horoscope!
I am now laughing here in the café.
Sleep ‘Kerouac’, and let me sleep.

Jack Kerouac: It seems I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.

O friend Kerouac, I want to learn from you a little about the bohemian kingdom.
I guess I now gathered enough determination to visit a priest who’ll tell me his opinion about the idle things I am writing.
I’ll take part in a demonstration tomorrow, and I’ll take my Sweetie with me. Love and politics are fierce lovers.
Writing my own biography makes me laugh. My biography is what people claim to know about me, not what I really am.
What goes on in my head is more like science fiction. Sure, there’s an unexpected lapse in the timing of my thoughts that causes confusion in the way I handle facts. I have every reason to hate my faith. I don’t know what exactly makes people fall in love, and I don’t know what makes me often choose sadness, insomnia, pallor of pupils, aphthous fever, Mughal measles, and hemophilia. This has nothing to do with the wrong decisions I took all my life. It's more like ordering a poor meal in a five-star restaurant.
Love is actually entertaining.
I might feel the urge to use the phone when I need to sort out my emtional and political intricacies. I might feel the urge to install dental braces in my mouth to shout as ferociously as I can of how sick I am of me. I might feel the urge to dial up my sweetie’s number on WhatsApp to tell her that I miss her aberrant eyes and international laughter.
I often cause things to become worse before they even begin. I think I’m in need of an emotional aptitude certificate.
I know when you cry and when you pretend to do so.
I’m flaming up with joy. I missed all opportunities.
I resemble striptease dancers when I am writing. I find the idea of transsexualism more like the idea of a one-party system. I am afraid the world will become a woman.
I am much preoccupied these days with falling upon luck.
Who knows, I might meet you again in the shape of another woman.
When I’m done writing a dirty poem, I feel as if I’m done having wild sex, as if I’m shot with a narcotic atomizer, so I relax, I relax and fall asleep, fast asleep, worried sleep.
It’s Jack Kerouac calling me from the afterlife:
Your year will be very balanced, and your hands will combine together the passion for fire, the sensitivity of water, the flexibility of earth, the diplomacy of air, and the apex of poetry
Neptune will bring you imagination and will bring opportunities to feel worthless and full of nonsense.
Uranus will surprise you and bring you idiot energy.
Mercury and Mars will impact your heart and mind and spleen.
You are a slut, you Daily Horoscope!
I am now laughing here in the café.
Sleep ‘Kerouac’, and let me sleep.
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