Monday, December 11, 2017

Late Knéfé




The chest is exhausted from the sativa suit he wore the other night. A body in fatigue avec slow breath. Alcohol blood stains the kidney stones purple. A bacterial infection also comes from stardust. Fester Saturday seems quite holy. A brother fills up a cup of jasmine only to smoke another ghost sensibly. Flushed in sugar syrup sesame cheese. A brunch considered occasional. Far from the notion of home the whistle blows jazzy trumpet rhythm mellow. Reebok rubber stains the parquet of autumn. A familiar taste of haagendazs chocolate fuels hope. She takes off her robe gracefully in early November until chills prick the tender pink skin of a winter approaching.


27.10.17

Monday, November 13, 2017

the visitor












They call it planetary
It is utterly ordinary
Posthumans or replicants
Does it matter?

French talk blade runner
Sci-fi noir or a dystopia
on this cold October midday?
An exhausted shadow
Lurks in his inner langue

Le nuage moderne
Ces’t une image cosmique
Sans forme et sans periode
Une etoile fillante en plein air
Elle coupe le ciel docile
Avec la force d’amour
Qui provoque la vie ou le vide
Je ne sais quoi

Ces choses sentimentales
Ils construisent un espace de rien
Mais encore des images qui hantent

Et qui traversent le temps sublime

ZS 31-10-17

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Dove White











A final reminder of your smell
lies in what remains of this bar of soap
that has melted time and passion
into its soft mediterranean skin
Gushing
vanilla-eucalyptus

A stimulating incense triggers
this infusion of jojoba kisses
missed
A token of its moist & careless seduction
steams these bathroom walls once inhibited
Now nostalgic
to its washed away existence

A final reminder of your smile
lies in what remains of this bit of soap
that has scrubbed off lies & deceit
while it has nourished your appetite
for squander & wanderlust

a transient reminder a bubble                          a wet reminiscence  

Monday, October 2, 2017

Newton Saturday

No control over your center
A forward motion in infinity
Light a constant speed rushing
Seldom relative to your emotion

Mass creates unnoticed tension
Shifting your space and time

Continuum

Trapped in a black hole
In a web of altered conception


We drown.


Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Just because














I write because I dream
I dream because it’s my nature
To capture a picture -- a perception
When inspiration comes in letters warm
Flood colors and words that storm
A journey into the unreal
A cosmos of a transient appeal

I write because I dream
I dream because I like to phase out
And blow like a light zephyr in early springtime
And watch myself cool off
Slow down the friction before you catch fire
Before you burn into ashes of forgotten desire
Without answers that make any sense

I write because I dream
It is my personal space to beam
Out ---annoying and troubling thoughts
as the mind rushes into knots
When loneliness has been put to the test
And friendship has returned to its nest
& love once again has been chosen to rest

I write just because... 


Z.S. 6-7-17

Friday, August 25, 2017

With all his being (on Imad's Birthday)

He patiently waited for his deliverance
Until his sailboat arrived at 80
He left behind him
Missed ways and silvery clouds
Mother earth and echoes of smiles
Whispers of longing for home

Traces uneasy to recognize
Yet felt throbbing in his songs and hymns
Unpretentious and unforgotten
By the humming bird he wished to be

His desire for verse
Bursted in organic flow
(Seldom empty of passion)
have covered the shadows
of his Dionysian letters
and his eternal love for life

He felt subdued in his loneliness
But hopeful and intoxicated
By the incense of every coming dusk

Out of his words
An event speaks freedom
Anguish and peaceful expectations
A revelation of songs
Remembered on his birthday                

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Isolated


 Worm of motion
slides gently to cut
Light
the landscape
red & Orange
like the sky
Shuts its eyes
& its horizon
Fades to darkness

It blinds
It binds
Connection to the minds
To seek a shelter without abuse
& a bed without a muse


3-7-2017

Friday, July 21, 2017

Mind’s eye

Green blue grey
In incomplete disarray
From the bottom straight up
To the bird flying by instinct

When darker clouds swim by
Sporadically overhead
They cool down the cracking skin
& dim the sunlight
From its everyday wander

Blown bubbles prism air
The little boy follows carelessly
Tracing the wind’s path

When she thinks of Sylvia Plath
A carbon monoxide victim asphyxiated
With head in the oven & children sleeping
What makes a good mother?

Uninvited raindrops suddenly splash
these tainted letters
That shake the page of a poet’s garden
A disdain to a warm summer day

But a shelter under the pine tree branches
Makes water an inspiration
As it cleans out everyday noise
till breathing becomes our poise

Drip drop drip drop
Time to pause

Drip drop…                                                 

LIFE




Sunday, June 25, 2017

Twenty-Five June

At the Tilted Kilt Mississauga
I try to tell my saga

Of a schism intentionally created
by someone impulsively berated

For the juices have slowly dried up
& the well has surely stagnated

This is a point of no return
& a loss utterly sedated

Three months are enough to know
if issues were about to blow
but when the heart sinks in blindness
there's no room for silence
but an emptiness awaiting to be filled up

after the well has gone dry.

Monday, March 20, 2017

tonight


I put my middle finger
in the crater of flesh
to taint your frustration

it is sometimes intimidation
to owe me this much
when jazz plays the night
with piano keys & gentle trumpet
pulsing numbing beat
under warm embraces clinching
to the orgasm of their cold feet

we have been here before
we have seen disappointments
come & go
like a burning pendulum
to seek a homey curriculum
to align some sensible design
of a life chained by promises
& a legacy seldom defined

you let go
with stretched out fingers
as the beat lingers
into your redundant thirst
for some singular acceptance
of a construed experience
hidden in an oyster of our strife


we let go

masks are hardly

  The breeze from the rushing train Still brushes my long hair Still gives a moment of surrender   Masks are hardly Breathable Y...