#foreign love

Mannheim, 2017

This clean-shouldered bottle of baby oil, the smell of jasmine with the child-proof cap came for three euros. For another three and a half a warm döner from a Turkish döner shop

to halt the grumble of an empty stomach. The day’s weariness — The carping of the empty pocket doused with the cheap charred meat. When the shop girl of Netto asked my name.

When I was only killing time. Oh, but I’m only killing time. Yes, yes, lady, I’m only killing time. Wait, how much this oil?

Thereon the smell of baby on me. This year’s winter is dim — infectious. Dry meat is boiling in the kitchen in an unfragrant night of plague. Making me feel unloved, like an imp, who’s aching to burn down this city after repeating his name:

Arun al-Rashid, Arun al-Rashid, you are in a jasmine dream.