Controversies
Its playfulness, its lusty smiles, its
begging humors dressed in black, metaphorical and double faced garbage
cocktails and the hipsters camera,
my sense of courage is laughter to the
streets, changing rhythms, “mahragan is no music” "the local dirt is worse than
the imported," a girl in a veil belly dances on the ship while her hips expose
desire of the desired, la dolce vita oriental style fed with subsidize bread
and a hunger strike for the IMF, because L’Oreal says you are worth it and "stinginess makes me horny", overbeating, overlapping, in place of melancholic
ideals, melodies of love, calam helwa and some Nar, pink lipstick and a woman
hitting a man with a stick ten times larger then his dick,
Naïve and endlessly heavy, illusion is
the consequence of survival in a delusional world: is when; the Egyptian taxi
driver laughs I feel like crying, false pity and fair trade chocolate for 20
pounds,
The city always demanding, its rewards
me, denies me, it is an instinct that keeps me in the invading obsessing
streets, whipping me out so I can invent myself on their grounds, streets with
senses that break and rebuilt, glorify me, ground me, my heart has a content
when the city of dust cries in laughs high from tramadol and hashish, the Nile
whispers to its lovers watchers, while its hidden freedoms, and forbidden
desires sings on songs of despair, of hopes and stolen rights, of buried
freedoms in the polluted mother of civilization, poverty is reclined, the force
of source, capital fed with garbage-collectors
You inspired
me, I recreated you as dirt, authentic as you are and even dirtier as you are,
art is realism, surrealism, and postmodern, but never real, my garbage that you
collected, it cleansed me, you became my art and I sense full, while my garbage
is recoiled in a cycle giving me back my sense.
Capitalism has no end.