L’Eternel Retour

 

 “Get out of the gutter,

rotten stinky rat!”

The strong cat shouted.

The little skinny scary rat

shivered,

trembled,

and quivered.

wrapped up in fear

and dejection,

like a solitary peach on a bough,

ready to be yielded

by a hungry voracious mouth,

the little rat had nothing to do

but play the harmonica,

and sing his blues

before

returning back

to the gutter

in the form

of the cat’s excrement.

 

 

Under the Tent

 

The empty desert has its inner beauty.

The tea is minty.

The goatskin is hanging on

a worm-eaten wooden pole.

Drops of cold water are sloshing into

thirsty sand buckets

the ants made.

The scorpions are peaceful today.

And the blues has gone with the sirocco wind.

 

 

A Crocodile Explaining the Blues of Identity Crisis

 

This morning the crocodile is dejected.

He revolves around himself in fits of frenzy,

as if he wants to spackle the scars of his wounded heart.

Happiness dies in his heart’s chasms.

He revolves,

                      and revolves,

                                               and revolves,

as anger pours forth his heart.

Though giant and scary, the crocodile does not know

why sea creatures abhor him,

and land creatures despise him.

He revolves,

                        and revolves,

                                                  and sheds crocodile tears.

“Ok! I won’t revolve again. But beware land and sea creatures!

Each one of you I’ll capture will be the remedy for my blues!”

 

 

Megrims of Love

"The blues is an expression of anger against shame and humiliation." B.B. King

 

Soft fingers clicking on the buttons of the mobile

                      clicking on the buttons of

                      the mobile

                      the cruel mobile

Got to make him talk to her at any cost

Got to make him talk to her at any cost

                       Mobile in front of her

                       Nothing to do but click

                       She’d like him to talk

                       at any cost

She hates his anger

She hates his silence

His silence is anger

She hates her mobile’s silence

Plop, plop, plop, went her tears on the ashtray

She wiped a few tears then she shed some more

Her fingers even made the mobile moan with her megrims

                      Champagne on the table

                      New red nightie

                      White flesh, palimpsest of alabaster

                      Nothing to do but click

                      Tonight She‘d like him to talk

                      and made her a happy chick

Plop, plop, plop, went her tears on the ashtray

No cigarettes were left

So she poured her blues into a bitter black coffee

The face of the black coffee frowned

Plop, plop, plop, went her tears on the ashtray

The cigarettes’ mouthpieces blossomed in her room

sullied with darkness;

The black roses’ scent carried her blues—

a scent that hinted a rotten corpse in a black river of tears

                       Mobile in front of her

                       Nothing to do but click

                       She’d like him to talk

                       at any cost

 

 

© Ali Znaidi

 

Bio:  Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002. He teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut, fortunates.org, Otoliths, and is upcoming in The Rusty Nail, and Yes, Poetry. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Networkhttp://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.