Posts Tagged ‘Ali Znaidi’

Digital Lust
The cyber world has eaten
her bones and held her marrow
in a vicious circle.
In the evening, when body
becomes relaxed like fleece,
then hers opens like
a wild bud. Layers upon
layers, touch after touch,
and the petals dance away,
draw closer, dance away
once again.
She stretches and uncoils.
She hooks and twists her limbs.
She screams like thunder.
The lightning brings rain
and shadow of her skin
collides with the screen
until the bucket
is overflowing.
    ink wets the paper
no single word is written:
    drinking in mirage
       glacial frosty wind
The Muse catches a bad cold—
            poetic virus
     still dreaming of dawn,
searching for the silky thread:
         sin of confession
     torrents of rain fall:
bullets striking the body—
      carving epitaphs
          a cruel coldness
is plucking all handkerchiefs
       from all the drawers
    gusts of wintry wind:
the silky bush is dangling—
       a hair in the soup
Feeble breeze wafted—
a free air-conditioner
to the poor’s delight.
            a virgin apple;
its red glowing lights rinse sins—
        I may purge on Mars

  heat thickens the air
a monster and a furnace
  bodies bathe in sweat

    venomous snakes hissed
from every sides of the bush
             hot sirocco wind

        Dust under the roof
The ceiling glitters with light
        Her rusty long nails

          two black clouds dancing
raindrops quenching the soil’s thirst
                   a bra drying up

              a necklace of snow
locked between two strawberries
            white sugary teeth

   cloying strawberries
melted by a rough river
    when kissing her lips

The Poetress
For Devlin De La Chapa
She appeared whole,
with the scent of her ink,
with her magical words
that shake reality,
with her magical words
that cure aches.
When she dipped her plume
in the inkwell,
white papers just dance
welcoming roses so pink,
& her blood oozes out
of her words
that smash the world.
She appeared whole,
with silk in her tongue,
with her words that glide
smoother than smoothness.
She appeared whole,
She appeared whole,
She appeared herself, just herself.
A Sonnet for a Clothesline
Beautiful sparrows/
A Bra(in)   on a clothesline.
                            The (bra)in
is still
on a clothesline.
Sparrows fly away,
& the brain is still
charmed by the clothesline.

Waste/ Lost/ Wreckage

“You live so far away.
What a waste!” He said.

Eye to eye.
Magical mesmerizing
bedroom eyes.

Ship firmly was sailing
the sea before opening the cam.
After seeing the eyes,
broken masts,
holes, .
water leaked—
total wreckage.

If The Rose Could Speak

“The immortality of Flowers must enrich our own,
and we certainly should resent a Redemption that
excluded them—“ Emily Dickinson

If it could speak,
the rose might say,
“Why do you pluck me?
Why don’t you let me
welcome another day?
Why do you cage me
in a vase,
or offer me to
your lass?”

If it could speak,
the rose might tell,
“Give me my freedom again—
otherwise you’ll be rotting in hell!”

The white Nightgown

Oh, darling! I think you
don’t miss me tonight.
So I decide to come to you.
I know you are lying on the sofa right now;
smoking your cigarettes
and sipping your red wine.
I remember all that.
So tonight I love to make you happy.
“So much depends
upon” red wine poured in my skull;
to pass smoothly into your mouth.
I love to cling to your body
and envelope you in my white nightgown
that you used to love it.
I love to make you inhale the macabre scent,
till you glide into sleep.
Oh, darling! I want to train you
for death.

Fragrant roses bear prospective souls in their wombs.
Fragrant roses bound to kitchens, while soaked in sweat.
Fragrant roses wash dishes and garments, and do all chores.
Fragrant roses toil in fields, even under rain, so wet.

Fragrant roses tamed, domesticated and confined.
Some are happy, but most are bored being in the vase.
So, feminism was born to make the vase fall apart.
A woman has brain, too. She can excel and be an ace.

Oh, stagnant minds! Do roses need to march
in another braless day? Do they need to rebel and revolt?
Yes, they need to rebel and occupy stagnant minds,
and shake off that dirt from the mind of any dolt.

Rebellion of a Prostitute
Oh, men! I don’t want you
to tear my body’s maps anymore.
I don’t like you
to stain my sheets anymore.
Yes, you invaded my body’s sheets,
but not the labyrinth of my soul.
I won’t let you sink
in my lush forms anymore.
I won’t let you squeeze
my fruits anymore.
Go and buy yourselves
fruits from stalls!
I’m no longer for sale.
The buck no longer baits me,
nor does the quid.
Today I’m a rebel.
I was silently protesting
in the streets
of my stained filthy veins,
gathering up my wounds,
piece by piece,
not to sink in the abyss.
But today I shout,
scream, and yell.
Today I discovered
that protesting is lust-laden,
and pleasure soaked.
Today I like to salvage
my body’s cities.
I won’t give my juice
to those offering me
some pounds.
Today I declare
once and for all
that my juice
is awaiting only that one
who’ll give me
pure love, so profound.

raindrops fall on the asphalt
a dog is running
meaningless barks
the prostitute
under her umbrella
is spitting
on the asphalt
the asphalt
is confused now
as it doesn’t
distinguish between
the raindrops and the prostitute’s spit
as the dog
keeps barking

A Feast for Sharks: A 7-day Diary of an Illegal Immigrant

Day one. By the end of a bleak wrathful day,
found the targeted house—
a shelter away from the eyes of cops.
Day two. Met varieties of aliens. Built a small fire.
Made green tea with mint.
Day three. Fought over a loaf of bread. Peace came again.
Started looking at the sky through a little window.
Day four. Constructed a death/dream boat.
Started dreaming. The seagulls of heaven arrived.
Day five. Took a rest. Inhaled the balmy breeze of the blue
Mediterranean Sea. Strangers stared at each other.
Cautiously hummed songs of their dreams.
Day six. Stopped dreaming. Prepared for the unknownpath.
Some food, water and cigarettes.
Day seven. Dream danced again to the rhythm of the
palpitating hearts. Stuffed like little sardines in a can.

And the sharks would take care of everything.

My little
town is surrounded
with mountains: Nude mountains
coated in grey ash. Not enough trees.
There are no vivid grass and no fountains.
The mountains seem to me like a round inedible cake.
How I long for vivid grass! How I long for ripples in a lake!
I wonder if I can dream of pastures, so green. A little blue boat sailing
a ravine. Water flows in a river, so serene. White sheep browsing the grass.
A shepherd holding a flute made up of brass. Scents, scenes, sounds, savours, and
strokes. All senses mingle. The body and the soul jubilantly jingle. What a bliss
to feel the body and the soul harmoniously kiss! Kiss bliss bliss kiss kiss kiss bliss
bliss bliss kiss. A snake was coming from the mountain hissing. “I really miss your
flesh,” she said. “Wake up from your dream. I wanna eat your flesh, so fresh.” She said.

Lilith is angry
because Adam broke the ribs.
Lilith is not a rib.
Adam couldn’t locate
the original sin—
secret unknown
The rib is always a scapegoat.
Adam is always breaking the rib.
Lilith stands up in full bloom,
spitting waves of anger.
Adam is always stubborn.
Lilith is angry—
story unfinished.

Seas of sand
A motion
Expansive horizons
Brown lively lizards
Just swimming
Waltzing to
The soundless rhythm
Of the sand’s waves

Little Hot Stories
Hot candle juice
on the frigid body.
Hot sun’s lights
whip the body.
Hot desert sands
wrap the body—
eternal embrace.
The lighter burns
the fingers.
Oh, come on!
Fire is not always
a bliss.