Andi Zeneli ©

Pleased to meet you Zeus

Project Room 295

Date meal

The night before clouds joined

a dog and gave birth to a bone

invited my date, famous restaurant

where I was a regular Al Capone.

I didn't order but nodded my head

like a tyrant to its secret police

get me the usual that's what I meant

wine, and rice and the beans.

My girlfriend and I were stupefied

4 waiters carried a giant seal

with two of its cubs she had been fried

no, we could not eat that macabre meal

'A misunderstanding' I tried to explain

as a dead husband tells his wife

'I usually eat fresh buds after the rain

not roasted fingers on a gold knife'.

Project Room 296

Time for a change

I, the mighty Zeus

got tired of sneaking from my palace

nauseating from the fabrications

I had to make for Hera

the next morning

'I tried to save Greeks from another plague'.

I also got bored with the raping

and dull conversations

with hotel maids

so I decided to throw a party

and invite my secretary

and all the gardeners of Mount Olympus.

We got drunk

and I ended in the Roman Tavern in Italy.

Of course I told Hera I had to extinguish

the flames of Mount Vesuvius.

After a month or so

my secretary came to my office

we had coffee

and she thanked me for giving her the opportunity

to know

my cook

now she can eat Olympian style food

and even afford a ride on a bicycle

that will be invented by humans

two millennia later.

I was polishing my nails

smiling

'I am glad I could be of any help'.

Project Room 297

Public dance with bugs

Grasshopper(t) are all over the shop

got the ladybugs jumping hip-hop

harmless pesticides smoke party free

I want the bugs hit the floor with me.

hedge firing softly on all cylinders

the threshold looking for fresh timber

mosquitoes slide all blood and thunder

exhausted, mourn' their youth asunder

wheels of rhyme keep the party bumping

tinker thwarter tonsils up and down thumping

coin swimmer drummer ceremonial flipping

temper tin of beer rolling ice teasing

grass pantihose looking tight tonight

tail swagger suitor feels so right

spoiler of the fur got hanger hooked

hair stammer has silver pins booked

posters down the street tug alert

groove with fame, wear same skirt

all wanton bugs be gangsters at heart

have no choice but kill a Mozart tonight

I proceed to mop a standing ovation

healthy legs to grow, grasshopper(t) fashion.

I want cicadas scream loud' my name

drink Piña colada, trip soft' in my game.

Project Room 298

Chocolate to weed

There's this girl stone on my way

dream's fastnesses, chocolate sway

water will emerge from the plants of time

come back to flood this town sublime'

glue down the feet and be with me

join the parade of my fantasy

don't pierce my eyes with casting doubt

waving hair the hunch I can't live without.

want to be a shepherd, yearn to grow sheep

going to the moon is not my big leap

I won't find treasure stuck on the dole

I dig the ground, save the blind mole

don't go to school to pierce my sleeves

learn' to rust the hook, tiller in the fields

stones are the books I open to read

moisture is knowledge of the frail weed.

Project Room 299

I know what a writer's block means

my cactus suffered from constipation

grooming totemic needles

its random tear was that distant mason

high on dry scaffolding

I know what a writer's block can cause

worms grow tongues

gold is a tumour on my finger

mountains are building a sack and a hunch

for a dancing mallet stepping on my toes

I know where a writer's block can lead to

walking barefoot on cold star coal

wandering with stray dogs at night

asking a bridge for a cigarette

spilling the night on white collar

digging a ball in the eye socket

crushing a rotten nut with the coat seal

smelling grave's flowers and chasing bees

polishing shoes with murdered hair

Men usually point at writer's block

with crushed fingers

Women really get my ancient sorrows

They know how to fake their passion

like the sea

ruffling its curls

whose curves

buried deeply among potters

taunt the broken amphora

full of calm water and wine.

Project Room 300

Land of freedom for lease

Let me wash your book!

woodcutters of America,

I crown your head with the laurels of the fall.

Show me your blood of the furrow

show me where the seed is scourged

Much depressed, and,

to me,

unaccountably so,

Your voice joined the eternal

and loud voice of the waterfall.

I slowly descended to the pond.

The scene I had witnessed

seemed to mark the defeat

of a kindred waters,

rather than the routing by our nomad stones

of a horde of uncouth mosaic.

I could not fathom the seeming rebirth,

nor could I free myself from the womb;

but somewhere

in the innermost recesses of my earth

I felt a strange yearning toward

these unknown rocks,

and a mighty hope surged through me

that the father would return

and demand a reckoning

from the lawful stones

who had so ruthlessly

and wantonly pelted

the wall of the waterfall.

Project Room 301

Dark thoughts

Death is never asked

to understand the nobles' viewpoint

no matter how

boundlessly extravagant,

obnoxiously indifferent,

without purpose or consideration,

unvanquished pity or justice,

at once out-dated and uncertain

bent castles, what fraud of stones!

imagine a troubadour

purchase the coupon of indifference

how could a smile

live in accordance with such mask and mail?

So sing!

That is not that just pretending

to be otherwise than reticent in nature.

Is not ageing the season of preferring,

the unjust trousers of total error

every planet being limited

by its natural street name

striving to be different

like horses in the circle?

Death is never asked with kindliness

what brought its ship to the shore

and granted that your port

built according to laws of sailing,

means actually the same

as living according to the hospitality prerogative

how could you do differently?

Why should you make a map

out of what your earth is,

and must be?

in topography, however,

it is quite otherwise with cemeteries

while gravediggers pretend to read

with rapture the speech

of your departure,

you want something quite the contrary,

you extraordinary flute player!

in your pride you wish to dictate

your orchestra and the wind to hush,

to silence themselves,

and to incorporate the mourning in their hymn.

Death is not a curse

but the end of the play

wasted to a small crowd

I am asked to hide the address of the theatre

we are so busy with our mountain

bearing its own lama

we will never know

the neighbouring show.

Project Room 302

Rat Socrates

You desire to live according to labyrinth stature?

There are a lot of engineers

the wind has met in libraries

who take their presence

there in itself as meaning something.

There's the actual rat

in that very library

who might actually be way beyond

the fire exit for sure.

But, more often than not;

they are few.

Or so it would seem.

The winds don't frequent

libraries

that often.

But it seems that every time they do,

they teeter on the edge of rejection.

Shelves wrapped up in the classics

looking over their broad shoulders

at any ladder

that might harm their poise.

That wind was dressed up

in its usual clothes;

sort of half transparent

I don't like those fashion terms,

but I'll go with them

for the purpose of description,

and it went up to the lady

working the computer...

The wind asked for...

'The manual of perception'.

The girl started looking to see

if the book was available.

The wind was then attacked

by this rat to its right.

I say attacked, but the wind

actually thoroughly

enjoyed the fight.

The rodent looked it up and down

while saying that he was just looking

for books about the sun

by sun addicts

that are taken far too seriously.

The wind said that still air and nature

don't have an opinion.

smiling at his breathless skin,

Besides, the wind wanted to add

a lot more to its defence,

but winds are not good

at aggressive moments.

The girl working there told it

they didn't have the book

The wind cycled home on its bike

imagining all the things

it could have said

to the inventor of the labyrinth

It would be best to drop

the nice pretence...

Project Room 303

Memory paradox

Two sweet cubes of Random-access memory

I dropped in my cup of coffee

you insist that it shall be nature

that will remember your grave

the last dinosaur can barely be fathomed

we don't know if this bolt

is really its bone

The last time the volcano erupted

was at the bottom of this lake

where all my clothes drowned

to let me dive from my finger

and bathe in coffee.

You would like every tailor

to be cast after your own image,

as a vast, eternal glorification

of flesh and design!

with all your stitches for a sharp tool,

you have forced yourselves so long,

so persistently,

in a tight garment

that god can't remember

what your stomach wished initially

Now a lump in the throat

is this memory cube

with such hypnotic rigidity

to see voice cords falsely,

that is to say,

periodically,

that you are no longer able to see

the shape of words otherwise

and to crown all,

Some unfathomable steam

gives you the whistle and hope

that because you are able

to tyrannize over the paddle

the voiceless sugar

will dilute into the tyranny of sweetness

that sugar itself cannot taste, want, or remember.

Besides, I am no longer using sugar memory

I have just dropped

two sweet cubes of Random-access memory

in my cup of coffee.

Project Room 304

The cloud and the bullet

I have you bullet in my cloud

you want to get out

Is not the shooting a part of nature?

Wormholes, time-travel

this is an old and fresh wound

what happened in old times

with the illiterate arrows

still happens today,

as soon as ever a cloud

begins to believe in its shelf

it always creates a book

in its own image

it cannot do otherwise.

I got you cloud behind the bullet

which is moving so fast

The observer can't live long enough

to see you

and eyelids are this impersonal impulse,

the most spiritual will to speed,

the will to dream in a second,

before the eternal sleep.

Project Room 305

The city behind the mouth

Big night

descending on the town of your mouth

don't talk or I will see

stray dogs on the dark streets

I can smell some city,

I can feel its sweepers at night,

tonsils as big as eyes

when grace is lost

and breath is on its trail?

The eagerness and subtlety,

with which the glass of the apparent drink

is dealt with at present

throughout the bar,

furnishes food for thought and attention.

Big night

that hears only a will

to the sneering bartender

in the background,

and nothing else,

cannot certainly boast of the sharpest ears.

In rare and isolated taverns,

it may really have happened that

such a will to scolding

a certain extravagant and adventurous pluck,

a drunkard's ambition

of the forlorn hope

has anticipated the vain craftiness.

Don't open those city gates

I see enlarged culture of bacteria

plague and the black death

tamed sky, sloppy wet,

it soaks part of the tongue sleeves

which in the end

always prefer a handful of certainty

to a whole cartload of beautiful teeth.

There may even be puritanical dentists,

who prefer to put their

last trust in cosmetic surgery,

rather than in an uncertain smile.

Project Room 306

Flip a coin after the event

I am a tourist before the mirror

A stranger in my own city

stealing a coin from my own pocket

flipping its shade on the floor

I lean back to see where it lands

rub my fingers on chalk vomit

'Excuse me, did the blackboard

abandon you!'

Certainly the coin is awake

its body has turned about for the last time

before the mint of certainty

has made all the surrounding objects

stand still,

has set the coin down under my bedclothes,

in my bedroom,

and has fixed,

approximately in their right places

the uncertain sun,

my chest of drawers,

my operating table,

my drowsy fireplace,

the window leaning on the street,

and both the tipsy doors.

But it was no good my knowing

that the coin is not

in any of those squares of which,

the stupid moment of duelling,

has not caught sight exactly,

but I can still believe

in their possible presence.

for earth is now set in motion

as a rule I do not attempt

to flip a coin again at once,

but spend the greater part of the night

measuring the disk

of the old fates

with my instruments at Greenwich,

Paris, Venice, and other tourist attractions.

Project Room 307

Sleep talk

Looking far above

the mushrooms on the valley

circle the napkin dial of tears

the day after the incubator

warmed the ceremony

another apex

ready for milk soaking

soft architecture of the blackboard range

When was 'last time I asked you

not to wake up

I have come to visit you in your dream

so we can talk

I remember you weren't this quiet,

before the sunset!

You are listening!

Can't believe my eye

why you are not all over the place

sleepwalking

scouting for a glass of water

some ham or a knife

I am told it will be a long night

the silent television

could be 'culprit

running out of news and poisoned food

I have to make note of this on 'fridge

we are in trouble

Wondering all over the city

we set forth toward home

but scarcely have the new mushrooms

debouched into the open ground

before a billboard

than orders are given for an immediate

and hasty return.

Mushrooms walk by giving birth

to another baby mushroom

identical in stature and behaviour

to the original traveller.

As though trained for years

in this particular evolution,

the white mushrooms melt

like mist into the spacious doorways

of the nearby houses

until, in less than three minutes,

the entire cavalcade of limousines,

nuns, nurses and mounted police

is nowhere to be seen.

Project Room 308

I know rhetoric earth

you won’t join me beneath the blanket

or cross branches to pull the plug of flesh

temporary pillar of the tornado

above the ferments

parking meter of the water glass

nesting on the pavement

I know mouthful earth

you prefaced the praise to guards of glass

men of parts, skilled in the subtlest wedge

patrons of the cracks and smooth braces

ladders of limbs that dry within

warming to degrees of comfort

they were most grateful that they could plant

I know doubtful earth

drapes come in a catalogue

of pins, jewels and peas in a pod

No, you have not read

your elegant obituary

because you died and were reborn

disorderly, as your donated blood

was sputtered to be rinsed.

Project Room 309

Starvation pillow

the heart of feathers

Sustain the speech

set out before the relatives

whose soft roof wept for the buildings

your soul lies in the architect's prints

not in the ruins of a wall

Prisoner pillow

heart of unread newspapers

wrapped in middle life

old news folded in submission

I use animal fat to ink fingerprints

Not by the colours only

were your clasping leaves

measured.

Honeymoon pillow

Wherever the hills were, there was goat law.

Wherever the horns crept

lightning struck

take your ovaries

from either side of the saddle

I am tired of all the dressage

in the empty country.

Project Room 310

Promise on the vine

Grape balloons

bore I aboard the stern

and my many bodies also

Heavy with salt

My continental longing

I am being fooled

I have let my guard down

the hull for a few bottles

I found myself burning

labels on my tray.

Grape canvass

It won't long

I get up, turn this sail thong

I can spin it around

the flax of a funny fawn

Got to seal one more hole

I swear, the next port

is permanently mine

and the sail in my armpit

will soak antiperspirant.

Project Room 311

War games

Wives use planes

to bring new furniture to the barracks

Pilots buy more flowers

unforgiving

whales of steel tumble, some sink

body bags litter the shore

ambulances rush for rescue

storks coming up all-right, neat

Shimmering lands and cotton of cities

weaken the thunder

Lipstick blood drips another string

to rainbow

nothing serious, it's an air show

we sit behind the window

and pray for a real war.

Project Room 312

Love imperative

I don't want you to love the red face

but the sun

The fundamental sauce

that stains the chocolate manufacturer

and the white sleeves of snow

that distanced my brined chorus

near the locked mistletoe.

A bright triangle

a label completely upside down can take.

the needle weighs the week

over the biologist's day.

Our knowing handicap breaks the risk

qualifying an apology before the whistle.

The frail invalid frees the ideology

in the arranged nick.

How can the lips skip the whistle?

eventually find the words they really need.

In fact I have the only thread you can receive

Got to be the prescription you want

Got to be the medicine over the counter.

why did you ignore my animals,

I see

okay I'm going back to the circus

Maybe I will find you there

among the crowd.

Project Room 313

Dogs kept coming

I went to the footsteps of other explorers

and I brought the sled

Eskimo skins

dogs for transportation

and lots of dog food in supply depots

Crying had to be abandoned

due to extreme temperatures

The first day my toes were frozen and I lost a dog

not a big deal I thought

I have plenty of pawns on my chessboard

next morning another dog was missing

my tea had finished and that kept me thinking

by the end of the week I had lost seven dogs

so I stopped counting

plenty of dog food for me

I winked at death

with the smile of the survivor

months passed and I was almost sure

more dogs than I had brought to the Arctic

had I lost

food was abundant

but I could not fathom

how could I lose more dogs

than I had previously bought

Project Room 314

Extinction benefits

I want to go to a time

before the wheel

that is not nihilism

nor the sign of a greased soul,

notwithstanding the well oiled courage

and the bearing

such an empty road to virtue may display.

I want to go to a time

where deer are stronger than cars

mammoths livelier than buses

thinkers who are still eager for snow

can abandon their vehicle immediately

after the swirling sound.

I want to roll logs

on the scrubbed pavement

and dice new rocks on the street

like newly captured fish

on the board walk.

I want to go to a future

where people will think of cars as dinosaurs

that rolled and maimed the land.

In that billboard

a new hybrid sides against appearance,

and spells through exhaust pipe

the oil extinction

so as it ranks the credibility of its own body

about as low

as the credibility of the kinetic evidence

that the iguanas stand still,

and thus, apparently,

allowing with complacency

their rightful route to escape

for what does the traveller at present

believe in more firmly

than in their vehicle...

I live at a time of traffic jams

Ahead free thinking headlights

who knows if they are not

really trying to win back the darkness

which was formerly an even precious badge

of the old domain, of colder times,

perhaps the frozen, incubating soul,

in short, sockets by which

they could live better,

that is to say, more vigorously

and more joyously,

on the forehead of a wolf

To pluck the windscreen

to scratch my back

to tear cotton under the car seat

for earplugs

and hitch-hike

totally out of this highway.

True some cut and bruises

for falls or collisions

I wouldn't mind satellite navigation

for the cavemen

make a wrong entrance

they will lose a home

and live with a foe.

http://andizeneli.blogspot.com/2012/06/pleased-to-meet-you-zeus.html