Khaled Mattawa - Lovers: (Jaafar the Winged)
Lovers: (Jaafar the Winged)
Khaled Mattawa
Heroic acts are their own rewards, otherwise
why do them? Now the huris come and go.
You can ask them for whatever you want here,
a girl who never loved you, a whore in Khyber
you'd heard about, but your faith denied.
Years later when she came before the prophet
declaring her allegiance, you could not stop
your erection. Those Ethiopian beauties
of the Najashi harem. Boys of all ages,
I had had enough of them when I asked for my first wife
whom they'd had to drag from some deep pit
in Jehenem. The angel said I can have her here,
and she'd still burn there at the same time.
It was like the old days between us, but I wasn't sure
it was her. She was charmed by my wings.
"It's true what they said about you then,"
she chuckled, having found something else
to laugh at me for. I told her my version of the story:
the famous battle--we were such a small army
before the Byzantines gathered against us.
I held the prophet's banner in my left, fighting
with my right arm which soon got lopped off.
Then I held the banner with my left and tried
to stop the bleeding. Then another horseman
chopped off my left. I held the banner with
bleeding stumps and ran toward the rear.
The same horseman chased me and cut off my head.
For a second I faced the sky, then my left eye
settled in the dust. It was such a dance, some game
you'd see played by the clowns in the fair of Ukadz.
History does record everything. Sometimes
it's the victim's story that survives.
And my reward was virgins, virgins,
and every time you thrust into one of them
she returns to her virginity, her vagina
tightening up again. No blood, thank God.
When I asked for my wife, I asked that
she not be a virgin. I wanted her like I had her.
She was confused about being let out of hell.
They'd cleaned her, but her eyes were pearled off
as if she had not blinked for years.
And for the first time since my death
I saw sweat, one stream rolling from under
her left ear down the side of her neck
into the top of her chest. Before it slid
between her breasts, I licked it off.
I sniffed her, the smell of burning still lingered
in her armpits. I rested my head on her chest
and remembered my one life before. When I awoke
the angels had come and taken her back.
Khaled Mattawa
Heroic acts are their own rewards, otherwise
why do them? Now the huris come and go.
You can ask them for whatever you want here,
a girl who never loved you, a whore in Khyber
you'd heard about, but your faith denied.
Years later when she came before the prophet
declaring her allegiance, you could not stop
your erection. Those Ethiopian beauties
of the Najashi harem. Boys of all ages,
I had had enough of them when I asked for my first wife
whom they'd had to drag from some deep pit
in Jehenem. The angel said I can have her here,
and she'd still burn there at the same time.
It was like the old days between us, but I wasn't sure
it was her. She was charmed by my wings.
"It's true what they said about you then,"
she chuckled, having found something else
to laugh at me for. I told her my version of the story:
the famous battle--we were such a small army
before the Byzantines gathered against us.
I held the prophet's banner in my left, fighting
with my right arm which soon got lopped off.
Then I held the banner with my left and tried
to stop the bleeding. Then another horseman
chopped off my left. I held the banner with
bleeding stumps and ran toward the rear.
The same horseman chased me and cut off my head.
For a second I faced the sky, then my left eye
settled in the dust. It was such a dance, some game
you'd see played by the clowns in the fair of Ukadz.
History does record everything. Sometimes
it's the victim's story that survives.
And my reward was virgins, virgins,
and every time you thrust into one of them
she returns to her virginity, her vagina
tightening up again. No blood, thank God.
When I asked for my wife, I asked that
she not be a virgin. I wanted her like I had her.
She was confused about being let out of hell.
They'd cleaned her, but her eyes were pearled off
as if she had not blinked for years.
And for the first time since my death
I saw sweat, one stream rolling from under
her left ear down the side of her neck
into the top of her chest. Before it slid
between her breasts, I licked it off.
I sniffed her, the smell of burning still lingered
in her armpits. I rested my head on her chest
and remembered my one life before. When I awoke
the angels had come and taken her back.