Andi Zeneli

When the good sunrise came to fruition

Project Room 115

Volcano

I can be sorry for your home I furnished it but was so quick

I want to swallow every stone And let you make another brick

My grit is smaller than the hail Planted in me the seeds of storm My breath is smoke, my skin so pale My feet hurt though were never born

Still stuck yet smarter than the river Looking for treasures in the sea Tears of sulphur are not bitter Washing the dust of memory

Screamed till lost my thunder-voice I coughed, I spilled a lot of blood Can a volcano have any choice But knock to heaven with his heart?

I can be sorry for your home Give me the pain, will swallow it I can be whiter than the foam Of candles fainting on the street

The lust has fled the Second Coming shaved head, eunuch shadow

Here's where our dogs are running and where the droplet meets the flow.

Project Room 116

You and the eagle will come live with me After all, I'm just rattling around in that cliff all by myself smelling of dove but things fall apart the feathers cannot hold birds begging for a scarecrow hat and supper, food anarchy I asked for a lemon wedge to fill the tide with a birthmark and dawning dew Who came here in the middle of the night with his own sheets? Jesus! At least, he cares what he sleeps on Hey, pal, of the two of us I'll bet you are the only one

who's slept with a sturdy cross recently in white ice cream the bride drowning flimsy dress thinned in the thaw Hi, mother any idea how hurtful it is to hear about your own son's death on the street? how can dogs count their fleas or butchers eat their own meat?

Project Room 117

Hey, your glass is getting a little clingy Listen, you lousy champagne I will not be treated like a cork Either you spit me, or you are going to be sorry What are these goose bumps? These are not sparkling bubbles I am bowling my last breath A telemarketer who calls his client While drowning In case you think you were loved

It was just a random list You are a bad, bad bottle Yet, I am always the one Getting labelled.

Project Room 118

A waging tail Is present in the circulation of the stars Dogs on loyal shoes Empty house of animals and plants Where each brick Makes a dictionary Even a simple piano Listed with the harmonic ribs Improvisation of the forest This epic woods These leafy aphorisms Shy like lovers Sometimes can be naked Old age is only a moral hazard

A caramelised hazelnut placed in the middle Where we believe There is nothing but sleep I tipped the stars into an oven tray And placed them in the hot oven Everything that tastes bad or good Even the beef Who doesn't need to breathe or move Is present in the circulation of the stars.

Project Room 119

How did I get in her house? Nine months and mother Gives birth to a painting She just throws me out wrapped in colours What was the point of sharing the dream Who died? Not me. Not her. So why all this pain?

There's not enough blood Left among the leeches To moisten the towel below I felt more terror in the shower Seeing that the water fell to the ground Echo of an answering machine hidden among rocks Leave a motherly message When you hear the beep!

I poke cold elves over the hills Strangely brilliant over the rain I stretch comely feet on the tomb Repent like a snake The knight is hard on his crawling horse All electric against the towers

Be wary! The bastard continues Unseeing at crossroads Sun on his face With what memories The other brush Played like an instrument for the moment Looking for landmarks Taking a chance on small sparks

At night

Everybody is so young All the skins are hung In the cloakroom At a cheap motel I guess mother Your painting could stay there Because I may have parked behind you!

I use violet fogs to blackmail the shack of smoke of hot nails which set the rules how to live through the wall of the reddening sound Which bears a neighbour the curled bullets find friendly

I use azure fogs their hole tells the whole truth which is a poison that can't be used against rats or sunlight ghosts of dust read the newspapers

a martyr pillow of newspapers speckles the dreams with electricity then takes two steps toward the water and washes their interior monologues

I use purple fogs that open their mouth so wide that their tongue sometimes, a disk weary of poles and zones sodden with water twisted like a turban grabs some sheets

Look, you can have the guest room next to the portrait whose sobs blackmail the shack of smoke you can stay as long as you want until the ship gets dry on the dock.

http://andizeneli.blogspot.com/2012/04/when-will-all-of-good-sunrise-cometo.html