Humans being are
the inconstant animal
;
at face value
you rarely know
what you're facing
.
No tail-wag
for happy
or angry,
the perfect smile
hides the bared fang.

Emotions ebb and flow,
friends come and go.
Small wonder we
love the ocean;
consistent, insistent
waves of mother-water
soothe our tidal souls.

Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and dancing
and mirth
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016

A crimson boat waives
The flow of the waves
As a blonde damsel craves
An infernal sun.

Next to the maid and the dandy-fella -
Blossoms a vermillion umbrella
Whose washed out shadow - a pallid cellar
For two green apples and one apricot
The blonde damsel on the way had bought
To quench her want of the lustful monster.

Closing her ice-blue eyes, the fair woman,
Her sinful inspiration did summon
To come carve on her navel so sullen
A blue picture of the new Benzart bridge.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, June 5, 2016


*"Benzart" is the Tunisian name for “Biserta” or “Bizerte”  - a beach town on the northern coast of Tunisia.

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

To hide my wisdom,
To protect my freedom;
Foolishness to put on a veil,
Silence will prevail.

Through storms and rains,
Through sorrows and pains;
When all words fail,
Silence will prevail.

After treacherous lies,
After goodwill dies;
When my heart is frail,
Silence will prevail.