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| The Poet Ali Znaidi |
When Red Lights
inflect the somber sky,
the ethereal odalisques
are divulged—privacy at risk.
When they reach those eyes
known for ogling,
the x-rated flies around them become
files archived in the dark.
And the hidden layers of truth
are just scratching the lunar system,
pushing it out of its comfort zone.
—Hence, a newer metaphysics
gonna be born.
merciless time
nothing is pending in the hands of a pendulum
time rushes by
no mercy at all
time churns
soon we’ll see if we survived the next minute
{a new penance required}
a shivering cringe:
I’m the tragedy which has lived on your pen
it’ all about the terror of a timeless pain
which has nothing to do but gnaw us
a tragic pain a pen hasn’t yet told us about
its ink has never grown up to replace those
scary stainless hands.
Seekers of New Skins
Perhaps you seek another skin –
a skin devoid of warts, acne, & eczema.
Perhaps you seek another mantle –
a mask to hide the beginning of
those wrinkles.
Perhaps we all seek other skins
on the threshold of maturity—
a great rush to confront ageing.
Well, there is also the awful attentiveness
to aesthetics & details, to the extent
of ailment (for some seekers).
& that obsessive lust for newer foliage
adds to the pain, to the panic, to the --------,
with SELF- CONSTRUCTION left unconsidered—
a manuscript draft unpolished.
As Sappho Lies on the Grass
As she lies on the grass
she wipes out her lipstick
because she remembers that
she was born wearing nothing.
She sets her focus over the expanding
scene of the meadows . Nothing solaces her
but the view of the scattered sheep.
...and when the sun reaches its zenith
her lips become naturally redder
because the universe was created raw.
No enclosures. Just expanding prairies.
No lipstick. Just the taste of pomegranate
and philosophy on the murmuring lips...
A Theory of Gratuitous Death
Fireflies claim their share of darkness.
They want to practice yoga in the dark.
They want to ponder on smoke.
They want to dwell in the carcasses of the dead.
They want to supervise the shadows of trees.
They want to reach the fleecy black clouds.
They want to creep into the veil.
They want to dwell between the cleavage
of booby-trapped breasts.
They want to explode.
They want to resurrect to devise a theory
of gratuitous death.
A Few Drops Short of Light
Clinging to broken boughs.
Coiling in a snaked dance.
Vibrating while searching for an algorithm.
The rhythm helps with the search.
A vapour and something else,
when the sun heats the verdure.
The drops converse with themselves,
trying to endure, again and again.
sarcastic laughters of fish
fish are still in the sea, and we are all in the restaurant
that boy’s been playing with a plastic fish for hours,
and he’s never going to stop
the waiter has taken off his apron,
then he started playing with a matchstick,
and he’s never going to stop
we’re not going to eat fish, we’re not going to eat fish
and there’s no more lust, no more lust,
and all our memories are about to be hacked,
and all our bodies ooze sweat in the apogee of winter
because there are not enough worms to be placed on the hooks
even, no more hookers to sacrifice their lips for a silent buddha,
it’s just the reverberations of the sarcastic laughters of fish
although the tide is far away, we all hear the echoes
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