"couscous" poems
There’s a favorite culinary dish in town;
it’s known as the synapse shish kebab.
It’s high in protein as well as fat, and it comes
with a garlic-infused broccoli rabe,
available with a choice of couscous or rice.
The palate will most likely be enticed, just like
another common John who swears to us that he
again has done absolutely nothing wrong.
It pairs nicely with an eighties chenin blanc,
gray matter that’s grilled to sheer perfection,
smoked all day, and is guaranteed satisfaction,
seemingly like an old, rambling rolling stone.
The lights are on—but nobody’s buying homes.
An opera singer that is deaf to certain tones,
this is definitely not regal crumpets and tea—
“heart-healthy nutrition,” all our medics agree.
There’s a new critically acclaimed dish around;
it’s the slow-roasted synapse shish kebab,
moderately priced, and portions are family style—
passed-down secret recipes from west of the Nile,
and also numbers that won’t make your wallet sob
like a big, bad, dark, overly loaded cloud.
Give it a try, and then shout it out loud:
synapse shish kebab!
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
I
The rain falling now
In Carthage -
A nectar
Of rainness -
Is like the grains
Of couscous
Made the day of
Celebration.
II
In Carthage now
The scent of rain
Is like the sound of
Pain
Memory has lost
To imagination.
© LazharBouazzi
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
L’épicerie «Mozabite» d’Akbou
S’il y a un lieu dont je me souviens,
C’est de l’épicerie d’Akbou,
située dans la rue centrale.
J’y accompagnais mes parents,
et pénétrais dans cette échoppe
avec tous mes sens en éveil,
surtout pour humer les senteurs mêlées
des jarres d’olive et de piments rouges.
L’épicier était Mozabite,
avec des pantalons bouffants.
Le roi des commerçants du lieu,
car dans l’espace resserré
jamais rien ne vous y manquait
dans cet incroyable fatras
où le «Mozabite» faisait ses choix.
vous tirant toujours d’embarras.
Il y avait des tonneaux d’olives
vertes ou noires dans leur saumure
avec ce goût qu’elles ont : «là-bas.»
et puis ces senteurs mélangées
de menthe, paprika, cumin
des parfums de fleur d’oranger.
et à la belle saison des dattes
pendaient les «reines» : «Deglet Nour»
Parmi toutes ces friandises
Il en est deux qui pincent mon coeur
Cette galette ronde et si tendre
la «Kesra» plus tendre que le pain.
et les sacs remplis de semoules
qui sont la base du «Couscous» Kabyle
Alors que l’agneau est son prince
Merci à l’épicier d’Akbou
qui sut si bien aiguiser nos sens.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
Toulouse - février 2014.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
x
for you there are bugs clawing over the rock's body at the summer when the seagulls are switching over calenders and crackling like electric ocean slugs. i am headed into the waves, crowding and swirling in the portal where i'm swimming to smother popcorn under glass . the popcorn turns to mush in my hands like time or couscous porridge within the deep dark depths sweeping away to the air under glass.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
The rain falling now
In Carthage -
A nectar
Of rainness -
Is like the grains
Of couscous
Made the day of
Celebration.
In Carthage today
The scent of rain
Is like the sound of
Pain
Memory had lost
To imagination.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, june 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
Television cooks rarely do
Fish, chips and mushy peas
With spotted **** for afters.
No
It’s got to be
Creamy coconut curry
With Balingud Zalud
Soaked in Chimichurri sauce.
Or Jalapena Lime Slaw
Accompanied by spicy Sriracia mayo
And Rachero Sauce.
Plus a side-dish of fluffy soufflés.
The starter is a vibrant veggy ratatouille
With sashimi, tacos and tortillas.
But then there’s always vemuelli noodles,
Pommes frittes
Teriyehi
Thana messala
And Enchilada Casserole
Covered in Romesco Sauce
Or Hollandaise
With Falafels and couscous.
Then Neapolitan Ice Cream souffled Erotica.
All impossible of course.
But don’t we love
The sheer seduction of those Words.
Paul Butters
© PB 28\4\2020.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 7:25 AM UTC
I aim to please
But I feel I won't succeed
I want to win this war
Deep within my core
This is my fear
at unease
As I try to please
This is what I want you to hear
I tell myself not to surrender
I feel like this is pure failure
Inefficiency in this adventure
I don't write this just for the trend
I write this only to pretend
That with these words I shall be on the mend
I feel so overwhelmingly selfish ungrateful
and these actions against myself so shameful
As I pull and I tug at these sleeves know that I am not harmed
So please, please don't be alarmed
For I am selfish and ungrateful
and just your average stereotypical
Self couscous girl
girl that is ever so cynical
Who writes
to
hide her world
I will deny
That its all one big lie
and no one, no one will ever know
So take this shovel and bury this deep, deep down below
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
There are those that want it
to come to a complete halt,
frozen solid and white,
like an ice sculpture
stuck in a peculiar pose.
This is the only way
to stop that heart-wrenching
moment,
that robs them of their blue skies.
Then there are those that want it
to quicken its footsteps
and flip by, like the pages of
a notepad giving motion
to squiggly drawings,
in order to get the next paycheck
or start that dream job.
Me? Every now and then I want it
to make a stop by the side of the road
and enjoy a leisurely doughnut,
maybe join in on the freckled giggles
of the little girls hula hooping
on the concrete pavements,
and sing nursery rhymes of
broken eggs and fiddles.
But sometimes I just don't care
whether time shoots up the skies
or gets weighed down with iron,
especially when I've got
my favorite chicken goulash
served with fine couscous
on an afternoon such as this one,
where the sky frowns with dark clouds
and spits angry beads of rain.
As far as I'm concerned,
the brown-eyed little boy
on the corner of the street
could be the keeper of time,
making sure it walks on nonchalantly,
with no regard to people's wishes,
leaving in its wake footprints of
sadness, joy and everything in between.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
We sit darkly among the shuffling of the pots
And the murmur of the television
Me and my cozy solitude
A redyellow booth all to ourselves
Grains of couscous have spilled
From the edges of my mouth
On to the plastic tray
Sprinkled with pepper and salt wrappers
I lean back and breathe
Between ambitious morsels.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
The real woman who loves the green woman of life is the unit of white light that the great body of the three corpses large head, large and warm, warm night loves the head of the body of the head instead of the United States, the son of the blood of the women of New York. The acid of the redhead is yellow and the appetite of the earth is the queen of cold gold. The power of the power of free life. Eli's Shadow is a person unknown by Joey Christ in the Brown Morning; The story of the birth of Igor Dammad, son of Amor, is the story of children. English Sky's 'R' Ussian ***** A beautiful body beauty, The goddess Devi; The beauty of the hand lost the life of the Goddess IV IVN, the beauty of the beauty, of the wife, the children, the children who walk, walk in beautiful landscapes of the beautiful nature of another Christian nature. The Tennis game of the distant parade is on the first day of the first day of the movement of the fat tongue that can reproduce an image of the brain citing intense feelings of intensive care and quotations of dark suits. Eyes of eyes; The eyes of the club are hidden from the pink zone of Hera, the original dance of the sand beach corridor. Sodoma dressed in toxic birth. Thin white, white couscous flies this message, the ******* the color of the dead fried Chinese monster started. To confuse breast cancer, the police returned the sticks that are experienced mothers. I love **** hair while I talk live with the cover of Ivanka, who is in a booth a lover. The talented foot of the country offers beautiful girls with female ******* military fame, zero green, this order of liberation. To use the magic range of light, I want to prevent the crystal crystals from increasing the heat, the cancer belt, the oven and the Jewish underwear. He said that after China and the expression the daughter of fingerprints, in the air most of the life of the Australian mother's many rulers is a good life for love. Generally, like life, **** is the quality of the prayer of the green trees, which will talk about the negative aspects of the river. Burke plays an important role. The client Torres Mundle and the world name: "Copa de piezas", which serves Greek products in English (in North Korea).
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
“You’ve been treating it like a summer home; vacant, drafty, neglected; and yet you expect it to be in top working order whenever you decide to honor it with your presence”, she scolds.
“But I must inhabit the bustling city, my first home, if I am to survive the marathons of days of disembodied vigilance.” I protest. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“You don’t get it,” she expectorates, eyes narrowing and finger wagging.
“I’m just the messenger, telling you something you already know.”
I try pleading.
“Why must you scream so loud? Can’t you give me more time?
Surely we can make a deal.”
“There are no shortcuts,”
she responds, firm yet kind.
“I should know. I’ve traveled all the way from the end of the line, up your nerves and into your synapses. You have no choice but to climb down from your high tower, through your neck, beyond your shoulders, past your liver, kidneys and hips, to fingers, legs, and toes. Be with them, or they will keep sending me after you, as your benevolent warden.”
I blink, pedaling fruitlessly through the couscous
holding back unwanted questions
yet anticipating a Scroogian epiphany
What am I willing to give up
to be rid of her?
Should I offer my ambition as hush money?
Or do the back taxes pour in faster than my legs can kick?
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC
Somewhere in the path of my life
That noise in my head got tuned down
I started getting good nights sleep
I started to be able to concentrate
And control moods better
Started being on time for things
And I started eating couscous salads
And other things middle aged Guardian readers eat
The epitome of adjusted
Then you came along
And the noise in my head came back
And I lost all those things
But it's ok
It turns out the noise in my head
Was music
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
You live
for no reason at all
and that's
the worst
Joy.
Because.
summer is a fool.
sprung from the unctuous
couscous
of a witless bloom.
the too long reason for a plausible ruse.
a dumb chump, whupped and thrashed
but never told otherwise how down
the below goes... but well informed
how the formless reeks
of damp
No.
the worst joy is slumber
when the wind is kissing your dessicated kiss.
when the whole emotion
is half the feeling.
when the real thing is just false enough
for poetry
but real enough
for dreams.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
In the ring of memories, there is silence bribed silently: Behind its soul barricade, his life is squeezed out like a juicy lemon every day, but even then it is not broken, and he holds his faith hard! He is a self-contained, selfishly locked prisoner, yet he is forced to look down on this shaggy, swampy attitude that the vast majority has now established! They are convicted daily in public hearings; the ridiculous role of judge and accused is all measured on him!
You can't be a mortal and just be judged! He understood the bled pathos of human falls early on when he felt a lack of empathy! - Magnetic couscous loads are tested to attract soul-toxic Sisyphus; seven-test rocks, if pressed to the brim, not even the falling-star-eyes will cry. “Idiots disinfected with idiots are in vogue, while many are chasing the single-color rainbow for no purpose!
He wasted loyalty to sincere friendships and immortal Loves! He felt a lively, breathing body amid the petals-dismantling kisses superstitious of the Universe; a brain shaker that flowed out of open wounds sooner True! - In his own case, he never asked for apology or forgiveness; yet he could not serve with his life whose death they had already forgotten in his life!
There could be nothing to be ashamed of in the fall of Sisyphus! He died with dignity a billion times, and somehow, leaning on a stick like an aggastyan, he stood up slowly; carried the unquenchable Calvary in his shipwrecked heart! “He tried to stay clean inside so that people could say: he faced Cassandra’s ominous future many times! Living with one Spirit without deceit is a human task worthy of heart! "In our handshakes, the betrayal of Judas is secretly and insidiously being prepared!" As a final greeting, the Savior Angel also falls, falls on his face!
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
Portobello mushrooms, I use them all the time
No matter how topped they always taste just fine
From cream cheese and crab to chicken fajita
No matter what you just want to eat ‘em
Philly beef cheesesteak, they’ve also been topped
So many possibilities, I’ll never stop
Bleu cheese and steak makes a hell of a filling
Portobello themed restaurant, I’d make a killing
Chicken Alfredo, or coconut shrimp
How about spinach artichoke dip
Turkey and dressing or how about pulled pork
You’d want to eat those with your fingers or fork
Taco, or nacho, or enchilada
How it gets better, I got zip, zilch, and nada
Or I don’t know how about spinach frittata
You could go Greek, lamb, feta, and Kalamata
Mediterranean, flavored quinoa or couscous
So many options, man just turn me loose
Lemon pepper, scallops, or Oyster Rockefeller
Or Chicken Rice saffron, it would be yeller
At this point, I feel like Bubba from Forrest Gump
Going on about toppings, oh well over the ****
Buffalo Chicken or Asparagus turkey parm
Just about anything you can get at the farm
Goes great on a mushroom I think you can see
Most people wouldn’t, but, hey they’re just not me
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
The world never saw me for who I was
now that I think about it
the world never saw me
Somehow I escaped all their memories
I avoided all records of the time i spent here
my slate is white as snow
and much cleaner then my couscous
I thought you already knew this
I am an invisible girl
you have to see me to believe it
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
jeg siger det er okay at han glemmer mig
for jeg glemmer jo også at sende min far en indkøbsliste
men jeg ved jo godt jeg er mere værd end en besked hvori der står at jeg mangler couscous
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC
And when I was far from home,
in another land, with Travelers who rented about their homes, I remembered you.
I remembered how warm you were.
From one plate to another, my tongue could taste them all.my mother’s fingers kneading dough, separating couscous grains, the annoying heat when she decided to make Mhadjeb.
I could taste every sweet they once made:
Bradj, Baghrir, Kalb El Louz. even the Eid sweets we used to steal at night with cousins and siblings, all of us in matching Jebbas, lying on mattresses on the floor.
We cried from holding in our laughter, gossiping about family drama, who married who, who said what, and our own little dramas too. dancing to our songs:
Chaabi, Gharbi, Staifi, even rai.
How lovely were the times in the kitchen, baking and cooking,while peeking at both our mothers’ drama, and our fathers’ political debates.
I remembered strangers on the street,their humility, their kindness,proof that goodness still exists. And I still believe,
I still believe in the good.
I still believe in you.
So that my childhood will never fade,
I will listen to your songs,
wear your clothes,
drink your tea,
eat your food,
speak to your people,
to never forget
my love for you.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC