Untitled

by Ali Znaidi

The solar system
hasn’t got any idea
about ‘the wretched
of the earth,’
or the oppressed,

otherwise
the sun wouldn’t
rise.

404: A Sin

by Ali Znaidi

Your wings are broken.
Your Face is veiled.
Your Book is burnt.
If you don’t have any outlet,
you are not in the light:

—The morning becomes dark
& Twitter becomes mourning.

—Hot tears cut across the laptop:
This is not an error.

This is a sinful act.

Lines

by Ali Znaidi

Magma everywhere:
A volcano erupted.
Then “red tape” again.

Rebellion (after “Leavening” by Chad Heltzel)

by Ali Znaidi

Things sprout in the spine: Thorns.
Thorns of rebellion & a thistle.
The silky skin of standardisation is stung.
Your untamed ink steering clear of
that mummified river because
standardisation is your foe. & your
thorns only sprout in a field of mutiny.
A vineyard of anger. Outcries extricated from
the throats: Jubilance of pigeons. A dinner
w/ the Freedom Muse. Sheep expelled.
Two cups of untamed ink,
ecstasy of dissent.

Poetik des Wassers or water musingsfor the soul of Christian Ide Hintze

by Ali Znaidi

because Wasser ist auch eine Muse
because Wasser ist auch ein Körper, fathomless
experimenting w/ water is such a tempting experience
akin to experimenting w/ Sapphic stanzas, (though
                                                        difficult)
loquacious ripples in the swimming pool
                  rinse our body limitations/
wet papers sip watery ink (mythology inhaled
                           to the marrow)
but how tiresome to decipher that message
written in eldritch emoticons by a one-eyed pirate
                            centuries ago
but what you consider a hieroglyph is not a hieroglyph,
                                but clairvoyance
& as the murmurs of water lick your weary ears,
it becomes evident that what you are hearing are not
murmurs, but Sappho’s sheer melodies, bewitching
& when you sweat, Sappho’s feeble breeze will be
a ventilator for your overheated brain’s hard disk
so don’t worry & just continue your ruminations through
the three-dimensional water’s pr[isms],
& what is poetry if not swaying words struggling through
the drunken oceans
there is a thought, and then it is adrift, and then it is adrift
                  ||depth in the form of a surface||
& because the sole foe of poetry is the anchor
         ||the intake of water = the ecstasy of poetry||
& because water touches everything, & because
each sip is a sap/ it is why we like to sop our tongues into it,
suckling on the swimming words clutching at Sappho’s
                                                                          wet hair
a drop of water/an imaginative flake/a mantle for dreams
there is imagination in a ripple/trying to regain its lost
rhetoric like a little hummingbird at the edge of a lake
dipping its beak into the heart of the unknown =
trembling undulations of the water continuum/
      undulations of the palpitating heart
water is a bearer of everything, especially the unknown
& because this everything is a redundancy
nobody is aware of it & redundancy is a sin, except
the discovery of what is latent between the waves
while sweat grains are oozing more and more
from the pores—a discovery fever
& wisdom is dripping (drop by drop)
from Sappho’s wet hair—eloquent lines w/out words

all is blindness

by Ali Znaidi

Moon, trying to assemble its pixels,
in fact, no clear pics at all,
instead the pictures are coming out
like leathery rinds of citruses
through the pale shadows of

ash/

leaking drops of the moon’s
lemonade [a drop of truth may appear]

but no aid at all
tonight the moon convened all
protection softwares:

truth’s pictures/
infected

all is blindness,
& we all see the truth w/
shattered glasses.

Austere Lights

by Ali Znaidi

No moon tonight. Instead, only bits of

golden fleece adumbrated by mist.

The light faded away bit by bit

to the rhythm of the lunar eclipse—

something akin to distant lights of a plane

swallowed by a hungry sky’s mouth.

Thunder. Lightning. & a cigarette

between two frigid fingers—

I was beginning to wonder if

these lights would hold;

if I would hold.

I wonder if light tonight was

administered to fit into
the austerity measures.

The Bookseller

by Ali Znaidi

Every day in the same place
in the same pavement
under the same eucalyptus tree
the bookseller sells books in his stall.
When he bends among the piles of books
his face radiates with glee.
Piles of used books enfolded in dust,
piles of new books that smell
intoxicating ink,
piles of silent words,
piles of slumbering ideas
waiting for lovers
under the urge of intense lust.
Fragrant ink, writers’ blood and sweat
mingle in his stall,
mature enough for a harvest of diverse ideas.
Though tired, the bookseller’s face still
radiates with glee.
He seems like a fluttering butterfly
spreading specks of pollen
& pollinating hungry souls and spirits.
The bookseller never misses a day.
He is so brave and courageous
to continue selling books in this age
of high-tech.
Every day in the same place
hope blooms like a smile
on a sad face.
This world is still beautiful
& books will never perish,
despite the tyranny of hyperlinks
because the bookseller’s hands
still smell ink.

Nocturnal Dream

by Ali Znaidi

Nocturnal dream is as rich as bee-bread.
Sweet sensations go through my head.
A “drunken boat”sailing a ravine—
enchanting moments, so serene.

Fathomless like an ocean or desert sands.
A wild horse that freely runs to remote lands.
A panacea for the agitated troubled mind.
Without a dream, life is but hell for the blind.

Nocturnal dream moistens my memory, so dry
It’s like a refreshing rain in the heat of July.
Like smouldering embers in the somber night
nocturnal dream glows and radiates to my delight.

It just tenderly and softly hugs my Muse.
Light, hope, and waterfalls of inspiration fuse.
Though storms submerge the boat of my dream,
Lights in the heart always shine and beam.

In the Inn of My Dream

by Ali Znaidi

I was jubilantly wandering in the street for hours,
until my feet got sore and my body got weary.
So I returned to the inn of my dream.
I lay in bed while my eyes were so bleary.

Before that I opened the windows of the inn.
My eyes became more and more dim.
So I succumbed to such a soothing nap,
letting my dreams’ magma flow round my mind’s rim.

I saw a big legendary bird with wings, so huge.
On its back Liberty was jubilantly playing with her hair.
I saw Death menacing and roaring like thunder.
But Life immediately electrocuted him in his chair.

I saw a prisoner bathing with the water of a butterfly.
I saw a little bird stitching its broken wings to start afresh.
I saw a mesmerising Muse called Freedom—
I saw her as a beautiful woman with pure blood and flesh.

haiku

by Ali Znaidi

abundant moon sinks
beyond stars constellation
parasites blossom

Booby-trapped Pigeons

by Ali Znaidi

The dictator ordered
that each carrier pigeon
had to be booby-trapped.
The dictator wanted
that each advocate
of freedom
had to be exploded.
But he forgot
that blood would irrigate
seeds of liberty,
& that pigeons would continue
to bathe in the fountain
of freedom,
while pecking little grains
given to them
by a little innocent child.

Summer Days

by Ali Znaidi

the scorching gusts of the sirocco wind are
building a big fire, a hell to bodies.
Beads of sweat on bodies blink as
they come and evaporate
                                    
Salty aroma fills in the air
similar to the smell of a grilled lamb
flavoured with salt
the air is thicker than thickness
folding bodies in quilts made up of
lava w/ many shades of red
the heat of summer is a thought occurring
      within the head of a heated grilled body
      that is rife with lack of freshness
summer days must have doors
clandestinely connected to hell/
sore signs on bodies/ Just forget about them
summer days will relish in the grilled flesh
& more aroma of salt will fill in the air

A Dying Lust

by Ali Znaidi

a flicker of a candlelight was waltzing,
         and quivering, as it was caressed by a gentle wind—
                               an endless orgasmic trembling
                                                                            of lust

         a comet dancing
                                                   through the dark

                                                                             once again
                                                                             only the wasps
                                                                    next door were singing

the      beat
symmetrically

                     went on
                                                                                   lust
went away, and helplessly thawed
with the appearance                                           of the first sunlight

Behind the Skyscape

by Ali Znaidi

Behind the skyscape
I saw
comets with
no terminus,
clocks with
broken hands,
crows darker
than darkness,
& bottles of glue
not sticky
helping a skilled
designer
to weave a coffin
for a merciless
Time.

Dejection Falls Apart

by Ali Znaidi

like dirt under nails
like rust staining nails
like when the moon ails
this feeling was encumbering me
till a spark sparks
flowers blossom in the parks
and the sun’s lights climb on top
of the arches

A Morning’s Conclusion

by Ali Znaidi

It’s been roughly hours since

the mosquitoes left the dunghills.

Waves after waves, they encircled the street lantern;

dimming its eye filled with wind dust.

I was smoking a cigarette near the window.

The sound got more and more sharpening.

My skin began to itch.

The weak mosquitoes,

unable to reach

the lantern, just reached my skin, trying to

dim my eyes filled with sleep dust.

The rain began to fall,

saving my eyes from the luciferous mosquitoes,

but kept me awake till the first morning light.

I just relished in

the collapse of the capitalist mosquitoes

under the rain’s flails.

The wet cigarette in my mouth

left me in ecstasy.