Andi Zeneli

The graveyard shift

Project Room 133 Circe 's single, lighthouse backlit and unseeing Love's sale wears the colour of the pig If you are dead and you know it on the island Raise up the oar to clean the snow from the plaque The iceberg which killed my unwept ship is gone Even if the mother of oceans was frozen I couldn't spot the white birthmark again Thirstily I hate all hereditary water Slow snake swallow your own fang Cow of horizon suck one of four udders How did the wine end to this dark coat Holding its glass wand, knew me and spoke: A second time? Why? Man of ill grape Facing the sunless grass and its sheep-less arm?

- I wear Odysseus's pyjamas but I can't chase The dream. I'm too old to leave this farm And plant my salty beard on another face With what memories the hero grows old If the sunless grass does not seem that cold

Project Room 134 Smolesk, Smoke-lens They were separate shoelaces The presidential adder and the eel Whose ministers safely in the sea-cabin Wait until the tusk skin might peel I remember the lightning laughter Flying shoelaces laughed as birds did Blew throats at the first night story I promised them, I'll be the April Going to fake May, plot till late June Hot soviet school for proper months Whose plane will buck me an old reptile Last cold blooded feather, fear coming up Then returned to land, as the seasick gull Sincerely eighteen minutes, my maiden story Maybe this plaque, there is another quarry Better ungoverned, grim, flat or predatory Half a mile down the lights of the forest Turn up their wolfish eyes at wild shoelaces The April uniform, civilian cloud crash Atmospheric pressure on the weather channel Whose signal was lost in the thick of fog The spring used the return ticket I gave the eel This was the rude landing of a thunder Cloud and fog kissing in mid-air over Smoke-lens And the lightning afterwards scratching her back With broken limbs on the spa-mortuary Mud covered faces pieced the slices into lemon There is only the miniature of cucumbers A green photograph left, too fresh now to remember Eel, when you fix an old thunder like that Outliving the impact, to find you've pretended

You didn't see lightning or electric fire I bank over Wisa, safe, monotone Put on my attire, April office hat I am almost a breeze going home To Smoke-lens forest, oak monument.

Project Room 135 It must certainly be confessed That the worst, the most tiresome, And the most dangerous of errors Has been a colourful mistake Namely, the eye's white invention They wished to dig up the white mud But I was the one To reveal that optic wire first I knew I was far too deep for that mine Planted in my brain And while they dug a hole... Seeking fractions of past explosives To surround and enclose them in I have produced an excellent mushroom With a long guilty neck And an iris on top Because it needs to chew memories My mother did not raise any mushrooms Although I admit... I enjoy their secret industry! Project Room 136 Down the hill thaw The pale dale meltdown For the brier had it coming The bush flaw Dew gnawing upon the green Flood's paw is made to draw The claw of servitude I wander like an outlaw And serve the taiga bourgeois

Swifter than the Mongol ear Nomads' heraldry Savours the Marsh Queen Dry her court pensioners be In their frog coats Still wet spots In those freckles live dance errands I must seek the blacksmith of wild horses A healthy pasture cheek Whose duty is wakefulness of the jaw And the heir of all the inevitable kiss Which the nomad pick Against the wind has nourished

Project Room 137 Arab spring It amounted to the very Inversion of gardener's towel And the denial of the condition of snow To speak of crescent spirit And faith as memory Spoke of blood As a shower Indeed one might ask As a weatherman How did such blood Attack that finest product of antiquity Had the wicked straw Really corrupted the draw of faith Hot spring Straw skinned alive Garlic grasp Within the tighter onion Deaf gold within silver ear Blind sand fill shells' eye When the atheist garden Rid of this green nightmare When can again The gardener draw breath freely

And at least enjoy a healthier sleep Under the moon crescent Project Room 138 To be men not flour of the avalanche Off a hill whose Athenian womb is rolled A brother river for a sister valley To want the poem to end in its unfinished bank But in future editions glory will be left out These wrinkles were added to the body Like flowers attending it to afterlife A place or state about which the maid Nothing can clean, the undiscovered chimney And down I laid to list the sad tuned fire Espied a fickle wooden instrument Tearing of papers, breaking yearly rings Storming her mystery with ink and rain Upon her head a plated religious sense This butterfly lives on poisonous milkweed And hives of straw which fortified the honey From the wasps, the sting of beauty Spent on swollen flesh and pollen Snow has not scythed all that hills began Nor all quit child labour in the avalanche Some dogs peeped through lattice of death They found the map hidden in sheepskin In it had conceited the character of breathing Winged arteries in the body of migration Whose firm became bankrupt in September Laundering the silken figures in revenge That season pelleted in native larks To be black striped men and fall Off a hill whose Athenian womb is rolled Into bread, flour of the avalanche.

Project Room 139 In ancient Rome, the Tarpeian Rock Was the site on the Capitoline Hill

From which dreams were thrown to Their deaths The knee ambassador from thigh to calf Must not follow strictly charity procedure No need for land or country to harvest dreams Frozen trousers shattered The two imposters Record the personal memories of the elk Who went extinct because of the size of the antlers Knee deep cloud, learned in cookery Whom the violinist replaced with younger vapours Extraordinary gentle Changing to tones that the imposters arouse And measured by diet criteria Whose temples are calmly thumbed Anthropology result in a corporate state With debt free dreams.
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