Moulay Abdelaziz Square

Native language
the stupefaction towards afterlife.
An antique in the most ridiculous auction
claimed in turn by time and eternity.

 

 

A poem Ι once wrote

The Medici Fountain
Does not express the Medici family, but
a truth that the Press hides
Systematically.

Sitting in the bistro I’ve already trusted
An advantage that I noticed over the foreheads
Of the meditations;

We stole poetry from god
To retire in nirvana
We stole poetry from god
To die on the cross
We stole poetry from god
And yet nothing happened.

We stole the humane;
That’s why I am glutting my thirst.

The pages are empowered but
Ridiculous as the intestinal evacuation
of an animal that was
Unlisted until yesterday.

 

 

Apteral Nike (version 3#)

Night through night
He’s changing hands like coins
Modern elements in a state of alert.
The oncoming one, aware of the sky-threads that stitch him
Into the cavities of time.
He’s ever ripped to pieces among the trees of the remedies,
A radio transistor, he is, in the shantytown,
A luster of bronze in the palace of forgotten commands;
The first apple of history
Ever learning from the showdown of the souls
into the indefinite mouth of intellection.
He makes fun
Staggers among
The grasses that cover his grave
Like a devil who covers the milk
The apathy of a gargoyle
That reveals
Lonesome internal crowds.
He becomes a headline the earth echoes devastated by dreadful
alphabets.
It’s because of the slime of some enclosing phalanx.
His orchestration of ceased windmills
Leads to an attic of rats
The mob’s shocking feeling of tedium
Since his existence has become a derelict religion
Descending from the unction of some tender injustice.
He’s typing under the heaviest burden
The solidification of emptiness.
Lately he surmounts the temporary that gives birth to
The everlasting.
Death is ripe bananas
The worst he could think beyond
doves at midnight driving a police car;
His definite signature lies on a loaf of emptiness.
He restarts:
Cheap offerings to the wooden statue of all the forms
of the crushing chronology;
Pain is a rock
That crumbles into his blood creating chasms.
Ancestral skulls debase and roll
To philanthropy –
Several poses of success in the gallery of meat.
He pays and gets paid,
The communication of the masks –
He revives from the preservation
Of an obscure immemorial rock-painting.
He’s one of the Symbols.
Contrapunto
A prologue
Apteral Nike
Of the one who insisted
There’s nothing solid in marvelous
Since vague-skin gestures
Guard our oblivion
In flammable generalities.

 

 

Called what we stand

The word or the sentence
That solves everything
Is there

Undesirable enough
Sufficient as an end
Whether harmonized in completeness

In boredom

Destroys the fortitude
Once called
What we stand for.