There are stars in his fridge
that stink up his food
as though they are clusters of rotting milk chunks
amongst other junk.
No longer able to eat a meal
that doesn’t taste like outer space,
he gets so fed up he eats them,
and they taste so bad he pukes them.
Peering into murky toilet bowl water,
he can make out the faint twinkling
of a regurgitated star.

Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
Say yes once, at the wrong time
And you’ve said yes ten thousand times
Soon they’ll be taking the hours
From your life

It will happen slowly
Creeping up on you
Like glacial tides
Like choosing a Pope
Like *** cancer
Until one day you are consumed
And struggling only pulls the mud
Further up your throat

They get you with all the necessities
Food, water, beer, clothes, and cigarettes
It takes POWER to say no
Not a lot of people have power
At least, they say no to the wrong things
They’ll say no to a mid-week ******
And yes to the slow death of 8-5

You see the injustice in their eyes
You see they are looking for an escape
You know, though, that they wont
The ******* move in

They claim they already own the place
That they never moved in at all
They’ll start rearranging
The furniture of your life
Orientating everything in their image

Don’t let them in
Don’t even open the door
They’ll take everything-
But it’s yours to keep

To keep so long as you
Love their cruelty
And allow them the last thread
Of consciousness
That leaves your body before sleep

It’s yours so long as you
Turn up on time
And stay late
Punch the clock
And throttle all human smell

It’s all yours
If you give yourself to them
They will use up your patience
And then start on your confidence

Until they have you
Decorating your iron bars
With raised, clenched fists
Declaring loyalty to those
Who would drop you without hesitation

Soon, they’ll **** that spark
That Blue Moon spark
The one you feel when the sky
Mimics colours of happy memories
The one you feel when
You wake with movement in your bones
The one you feel when
A balloon swells in your chest
Or when ecstasy fills your spine
How the wind at the back of a motorbike
Blows the cobwebs from your mind

They’ll take it all away

They’ll take it all
Compensate you with a paltry sum
For all of your hours
For all torn relationships
You have no time for

They’ll turn the vice
A little tighter each day
Until you turn crazy-
If you’re lucky

If not
You’ll be there
Spent on purified sugar
And a lack of motion
To your days
You’ll be there
A hollowed shell
Of violent potential
Lost

Lost in timesheets and long weekends
You’ll take pictures
Of days spent in the sun
So that in your luxury
Your geriatric, loose-skinned luxury
You can look back
On your small life and say
“Hey, I did everything expected of me”

And that will work
For no one

Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
You have no POWER to resist
You won’t be you anymore

I was walking
and the ocean
was above my knees

I didn't feel the cold
or mist hanging silent
above, but I knew
the darkness, old friend,
longer than I will admit

I knew the waves
in ways I know
I could never explain

You found me there
and called out for me
to come out of that grave
I was sinking in, I don't know
how deep I would have gone
had you not known my name

I should drop to my knees
and kiss the salt from your feet
thanking you with the sea on
my lips and leak salt of my own
offering gratitude for calling

Thank you through the mist
and waves, thank you for
my heart beating, not feeling
the cold, for my lips that never
tasted the lightless far below

Thank you for following
my footprints when I was lost,
drowning in a sea of sorrow.

The good thing about a tortoise
is that he carries time on his
shoulder
and does not have to run
to cry.

He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination
(so as to cast a glimpse on her nest
in the mountain).

He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated: unlike a star,
a night, a candlelight.

He is his own version
of the light and the rite
and the fight sisyphean.

© LazharBouazzi

For Our Special Prosecutors,
Who Guard and Guide Us

Oh, borscht!  Those pesky Russkies under my bed
Were marching around all night, changing my votes
Beaming mysterious rays through my sleepy head
And snooping through my lesson plans and notes

They programmed my radio with Marx and Lenin
Plastered a poster of Putin to my wall
Sailed Admiral Kuznetzov across my linen
Layered a Petrograd accent over my Texas drawl

The special prosecutor says no further discussions –
Everything’s the fault of those perfidious Russians!