Souvenirs d’enfance ou Tango To Zalaka

A young man holds near him a snotty little boy,

They are sitting in a 80’s Rang Rover.

This picture flashes another memory

The same snotty boy riding a green Mercedes car toy in the living room.

This is the thirst before the rush

And the rush that rides the thirst.

The hair at the back of my head  are dancing

And my heart trumpets like a lost baby elephant.

The sun sits large and wide at the end of the road

Asking to come closer just a little bit more

Where death can’t stop the pulse

Where one beats calls another

Like stars locked in heavenly motion

Trying to find the starting point

For the circle (circus) of the universe.

Chez Nous

La porte baille, laissant échapper un cri d’agoni

Et ce cri est une réponse aux hurlements  du vent

Pour remplir le silence des hommes

Aux lèvres cousues pour éviter toute puanteur

Nous vivions dans le suspendu

Ni dedans ni dehors

Cette maison cherchait qui dévorer le premier

Qui avait la chair bien tendre et l’esprit flou

La pluie claquait des doigts à l’extérieur pour nous distraire

De l’orage qui s’annonçait dans nos cœurs

Si seulement nous pouvions voir l’Etoile du Nord

Et percher nos âmes sur les branches des arbres du jardin

Peut être que des corps mieux disposés en prennent charge

Mais les fenêtres sont brumeuses

avec nos haleines chaudes d’amour, de haine et de sexe

cette maison dans son allure si accueillante et maternelle

nous a permis de s’épanouir et à la remplir avec tous nos énergies

au point que les voix de l’extérieur parlent de nous

comme si nous occupions le même milieu d’existence

nos griffes sortent vite quand un caillou nous est lance

par un de ces enfants qui voit l’étranger mais pas le danger

mais ces enfants qui nous ont visité

sans se faire accompagner par leur innocence

ont perdu leur souffle même après être rentres dans leurs familles

pour vivre la vie d’un produit d’usine

qu’un inventeur a pondu dans l’indifférence totale

mais nous aimons les regards des touristes

qui cherchent à percer notre voile de mystère

comme si se voir nue suffirait à mieux se connaitre

Bull’s Eyes

 

Fingers and feet don’t know what to do with themselves

When you have to be a stone

Waiting for the rain to turn you into a flower

Waiting for rain with open lips and hands

Sometimes the fidgeting turns into a dance

To loosen the limbs, the head and the heart

And endless swirling into the pulse of one’s heart

Sometimes lying flat and throbbing

Your iron will throws at the phlegmatic sky your own virgin blood

Instead of rolling down the hills to seek pleasure

By striking the rock for water to come out

Or you could be a black and white photo

An immortal gaze watching time zip by

A teardrop falling into a black hole

While ears wait and sweat

To hear the sound of contact

They wait for the rain and put life and death on hold

To make sure your eyes are on the ball

Following the ball

Moving with the ball at all times

Old People Are Garbage Good for Gardening

You don’t know how good you are

Until you are good and dead

And by then the question as to how good you are

Is superseded by how dead you are

“This has to make sense”

We tell ourselves while munching on a good chicken wing

We exchange loud salamu alaykum to check if we are all good and alive

It’s not easy to take people’words at face value nowadays

Because you are trying to get words to have arms and legs

So they can do all the kissing for you

But what’s the cost of a bitter life nowadays?

We keep sweets in our pockets like charms against the bitterness of life

And hope they will keep us sweet enough

To be remember with a smile

When we are garbage only good for gardening

Maybe, Maybe Not

People are never where they say they are

They are sitting across you

But you don’t know that you are staring at a shell

While the host has left the building

But you are quick to leave also

And all that’s left are two unreal people trying to be real

You remember too well the loneliness of Real meets Fake

You ended up talking, eating, walking, making love

Only with yourself

She just happened to be there

But the key to her box was lost

And never sought after anymore

She couldn’t take anyone chasing after her anymore

All about her, her kinky hair, her loose clothes and bathroom slippers

Spelled contentment in who she ended up being

Pleasant and pleasing herself without anyone say so

So you went ahead and did the foolishness of loving her even more

Because you hate not having

And when she finally gave

A lazy “I love you too”

Heavens should have come for you

But it barely brushed past your “Maybe tomorrow she will love me”

She ended marrying you

Gave you children

Lived blissfully

But your happiness had never made a come back

Your eyes still thinking and saying:

“Maybe tomorrow she will love me”

Stepping to Live

Here was a man who couldn’t find his music

So he dragged his voice at his feet

But Heavens always came apart

Whenever his voice rose above his navel

Here was a man careful with emotions

He liked to keep them in his breast pocket

warm and close by

While he wrote down carefully in blood an History of Anger

Tracing through his genealogy the impetuous rivers of Anger

He liked walking in long strides

Trying to bring life to himself with every step

He glowed at night

And burned during the day

Because tomorrow never comes

So burn, he says

Burn because tomorrow never comes

Empty Gestures

A simile was hiding underneath my smile

A slim laughter was stuck in my throat

And my throat surrounds this slim laughter with slimy walls

This was the kind of laughter to slip and fall inside you

To never come out of you It will go on echoing inside you

Ricocheting from one rib to another

Making your breasts giggle and harden with excitement

And once it has exhausted you

Leaving from behind

You find afterall how empty you are

And sweetly so

But when fear comes to sit on your lap like a cat

You are too familiar with it to shoo it away

So you look around for whoever or whatever to be swallowed

Just so laughter can return

To purge you again and again