Why does the poet take his wife out to McDonald's?

by Jalal El-Hakmaoui Conceited you sit with your legs crossed while the waves are asleep under your feet, you look like a herd of wild camels as you eat American hamburgers for the first time in your life, patting meanwhile your wife's fat neck as you tell her about Al-Nifarri's washing machine and about Othman's shirt with the hole in it and about the blond American fly you have recently swallowed - unwittingly. And she talks to you about your hideous car that resembles a scabby greyhound, telling you that you ought to barter it for a respectable donkey before she herself barters you, together with all your critical theories, for anything that would do to decorate the bedroom. Your wife giggles aloud as she boisterously cries, opening the feathers of her legs to the tongue of the air. You wish you could place her between your teeth and crack her as you would crack a rotten walnut, or lay her inside the empty matchbox on the table. But you are a faithful person. You believe that your own marriage was the culmination of a love story, that you got married to a pig having the countenance of Al-Manfaluti and the trotters of Nazik Al-Mala'ika, and therefore commit suicide daily by swallowing 100 classical poems. Surely you do not joke with swine. And the swine (this is what is important) have no time to waste joking with you. For as soon as you press your mouth against the mouth of the whale sitting before you, you realise that the earth cannot sink in a glass half-filled with chilly water, and that you are a poet at the peak of happiness. The skinny girl with the tiny head that resembles a tennis ball reads Femme Actuelle and stupidly stares at the couples in the McDonald's as happiness rushes out of their big mouths like spit, while they, with such paternal affection, put their hand on the bums of their blond kids who keep crying as they point to the street with their little plastic fingers: PAPA… PAPA… Regarde… regarde… Cet homme pisse sur notre voiture. The McDonald's laugh and scratch his tail and the true poem is a net with huge holes intended to trap as many hyenas as possible. I do not trust the poet's wife - who has the countenance of Al-Manfaluti, nor do I trust the eyes of the net. The same is true of the skinny girl who reads Femme Actuelle and from time to rime glances at her watch without drinking her glass of Coke.

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Γειά σου ρε fling thing. E. Hopper λοιπόν. Πού πήγες και το θυμήθηκες. Nyack, so far from New York, so close to Newark. (Πως λένε για το μέχικο, poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the us...ε κάτι τέτοιο)