Andi Zeneli

Cock a snook at the Cassandras

Project Room 424 I need to save the coward The belt is done and the coward falls from the plane of the night as a leaf is wafted downward won by the squirrel in a fight to see the lights of the village gleam through the gesture and the gist a red hue comes over the pillage the brown sister cant resist a vehicle of sadness, longing thats not akin to a plane and resembles the cowling the crossword puzzle of a stain

the coward lost his hearing some simple thunder I blame that shall soothe his restless feeling to banish colour of shame not from the seed of heroes not from the bow of the brave whose distant footsteps and echoes the beard of time try to shave for like strains of martial bladder their mighty kidneys suggest the glass is tall and endeavour to survival needs a rest. headline of the newspaper is the brow of a blind eye the richest feeling of the beggar needs cups of tears to cry that through long kneeling labour and nights devoid of a dream still spark the stone cater that bring wet food downstream the tears have power of perdition the restless pulse of a hare they come like the benediction that protection did not share I pile up deadwood a volume then read from the treasured pile how to save a scared broom from the witch and her guile I need the coward in my battle 'run away from poison hive go tell the story of my cattle to other calves that are alive!' coward - soldier of my choice his weapon - the parachute a feather will forever doze at the bottom of his foot. Project Room 425

Especially around the pool the pool shall be filled with boots that care less for the escape they fold their trash like the scarabs for never will be there a beach into the pool since we did not have space or sand let's swim carefully the tougher the mud, the deeper you dive let us stamp the frogs on coffee mugs estranged from the surface will remain in our hands or rarely even will be touched by wet lips the porcelain circle is a circle after all Project Room 426 There are no pets in heaven Among the satellites of heaven we are all deeply tanned souls feathers seemed heavy so we shed them off we were benevolent colonists stars are the natives they bartered gold for black coffee half nude, wrapped in rags of portentous constellations they run down the village buying up baubles and watches they give us rings then in the shade they prostrate to the biography we wanted to baptize them before dawn we overdid it there was too much water it killed their fire pets with satellites of heaven we are all highly technological souls but you wont find even the picture of a puppy in our digital album.

Project Room 427 Summer rites Rough heels bind us to these shower rites day after day come trains and wagons filled with young cocoons those that wanted to have an abortion or make some teenage grimace or give birth in public beaten by the sterile fleas all year round their journey ends at the fountain here they are brought to chill out correct their ways a calming full of leather and batons like the police full of squeaking thighs oozing motor straps heels of pumice icy like the morgue whiskey only the coins are limp wear the heels down reminds us of the expulsion from our homes or from the promised neighbourhood but we chose the square ourselves jewels disrobed in metal underwear under a workshop sun which facial cream freed from the ozone onions we cook our eyes for nothing as soon as we remove our silk masks which enclose other postcards beneath as soon as summer comes the mercury expectations rise dogs begin reign over the abandoned park and the parliament and the bald mushrooms... Rough heels bind us to these fountain rites strewn with coins and broken glass. Project Room 428 Christmas Natural Rubber The rubber comes down like wolverine milk

the marrowbone of nights I extract from thorns like responsibility from my shoulders whose cohorts gleam in purple and lonely battles and the sheen of their spears come smooth like olives of the sea when the blue tenor rolls nightly on deep backbone like the hinge of the leaf when burden is green that host with their nub at core are seen for the father of feathers spread his wings so fast it looks like it will turn around to stare at me as I drink hot rubber and feel and blush I know I reek of elasticity there are some vertebras though but you cant count on them these days they are rubber moulds scribbled vertically in a parish roster sewn into my shoulders with the threads I once bit off my mother's scarf now the scarf is tied to my ankles frozen embryos with them I adorn my latex room there is a rag for the experimental rubber tree which my father bought for Christmas to hold socks and other presents of existence. the rubber comes down like candle punishment the wax of days I extract from thorns like a burden from my shoulders. Project Room 429 I am glad to die My pensive doctor! I am glad I have cancer! Your soft cheek reclined to sit beside the blanket our contract overgrown with white flowered uniform

meet emblems of innocence and needle and diagnosis of the clouds that late were rich with oxygen slow wheel marks of the sieve serenely hollowed such should wisdom be. How exquisite the hospital scent snatched from a bean field and the sheets so hushed to the laundry room the bottles silly murmur of the distant sea seeks throat of temperance and guidance and that simplest lute placed lengthways in the clasping ribs by the desultory map caressed like some weatherman yielding to the chaos that upbraids the downpour strings and tempts the shallow vault before the flood such soft floating and witchery the voyage sows as twilight bets makes the winnings of the sieve where rice rounds frozen honey drops drops of dowry footless and wild the gifts of my bride neither pause nor ribbons offering to her untamed veil. O doc! I am glad I have cancer Like a pregnant teenager I will be soon a mother and father I know exactly the time of delivery I just saw a scarab crushed by its dung and a rabbit hanging by its ear I saw a cat choke on its tail and a pelican swallow a flat shoe I saw an ant stuck up in traffic and expire just before the queen I saw the snail live in its own tomb! O doc! I am pleased I have cancer I will not expire in battle or bear the weight of the crushed building I know what plans to make for the birthday I invite all the guests I want at the party

I decide the size of my cake I count the colours of candles Even Jesus did not see the size of his nails I know where I can lose the right sandal bleeding after the needle the soup of the cross the road to bed Adam did not want to know actually he was cheated by his nurse. I know when the apple will see the first worm soon my chest will be a scorpion and my spine cord will grow a sting that x-ray machines cant find I know it is growing and from the cancers perspective it is going to be a healthy baby. Project Room 430 Cloud parody The shards of clouds I might know their tears come in lemons though they will not send a secret lotion that could rejuvenate the prow. My little boat expresses caution to stop and find a treasure motion between the island and the rack the darkest shelf of the ocean. One lemon gives the sail a shake to ask if it has sprayed the fake drops of herbs on fish that sleep before dream host starts to bake. The ocean bet on broken heart the poker face salty skin deep the blue trail in the boulevard held puzzling shards to light. The shards of clouds are below their tears come in lemons though they wont mark the trail flow

that could rejuvenate the bow. Project Room 431 Blight is the last living organism I was scared of the blight so much that I let the army of rare colours invade my village blight has perfect ancient soldiers of the rainbow warriors that admit of no retreat they do not fight to win they attack only to rest upon trees like leopards of the green movement delicate acrobats of blue leaves members of a very serious circus let them gallop on my orchard divulge their drinking habit amuse themselves with round shapes someone should bring an interpreter I want to know them closely I want to know what they have conquered so far what is their national flag why dont they care about heavy losses Can they commiserate with the trellis they love? Do they have a list of herbs they hate? the battle of questions has just begun the survivors might be the slugs or a sodden lawn but I have to change the chessboard of sickened beefsteak vines I might have to play the game on the yellowed half black lot before the blight itself has set for extinction. Project Room 432 Talk of value We are the worthless metals iron men, bronze coats, copper sails cradle alloys, fence makers

spoon robbers goat keys, pulleys, lightning furrows tooth fillings, keepers of kettle lead letters, lice combs church hammers, bell scratchers corn coins, sick sickles, bad braces As if trains could build themselves as if engines jumped from the ground as if flesh of bolts fell from the ribs as if textile nets prevailed on shores to collect rich moulds and lush plantings long necked strings and tongues of molten ore to fend the wild for the unborn to wreck the peril suffering furnace that may dry up the air snakes that might swallow the lumps of coal dust that may ravish the fire kingdom that may resign from spears of cedars principality of forgotten mines Thorny promise to satisfy the appetite of wheels our thirst for of lava made toys the need for terracotta armies to fill an underground opera but belittled by the wooden instruments to stand silenced by the processes before us Before I enter the security gate these be my sudden and undigested diamonds. Project Room 433 Disqualification of a beach medallist I breathed in the face of sandals and the eyes of waxed slippers and leather amulet of chilly boots but once heaved and forever grown still before my tools lay the skin with its nostrils all wide although the mirror misted no sigh of relief

no puff of tiredness no blow of anger I thought it wise to conduct propitious tests poking the pride out of it with a chisel or colouring the foam on the edge of a hole gasping whitely on the desk and cold as the surfing beer and there lay the rider distorted transparent like a bottle with salt on his brow and the rust on his toenail and the crowd was all silent the gulls banners alone the lances changed into microphones the trumpets forlorn the widows of grimy made to separate the roar from the board splinters the only predicament that led to impeaching the winner from the beach the only physical defect in his athletic arrogance was his naked foot barefoot is the way to enter the temple or a shower or bird nests but I am afraid the power he got from earth not from the ocean. Project Room 434 The hawk and the sheik While the hawk is away telling its marked prey about the red corseted mushroom the moisture waits on the queen sized flowerbed you would expect the frog quiet in the first copper bullet or maybe hunched and humble. Half its muzzle

a shade of meringue the other half the black spot postcard from the bruise of cattails Its mouth even too straight for a scream as if it regretted the moonlike leap the way frogs do. In its hands a froglike applause and a wad of paper not a suicide note maybe a bad green apology or the bill of night electricity the legal suite for a harassment a decision solely for frogs to make Its leg limp on a green chair in front the hawks training spot and the bucket full of fish A fisherman must be the arbiter he is waiting anyway the hawk can make use of him his hat with a nylon feather that is all the early morning left the bird with knowing it would return a thirst for the self in everything even in the sweet cheeks of a young gymnast When the hawk is back telling its marking sheik about the gold corseted grasses the moisture bleeds allergic to powder on the king sized bed you would expect the sheik nervous in the first copper shell or maybe stretched and agile... Project Room 435 Chewing gum in Baghdad Ready to rid the chewing gum in a self-indulgent way

insert two fingers in the mouth then use the mouth spray but as I stretch my journal hand near the bin of the postman before I throw in it a stamp coin to a starving wren I caught a petal on the way projection of an eye with thirty lashes on display and the iris dye I felt so guilty of the deed my fingers sent to action the other hand started to feed the guilt mouth of pretention all fingers caught in rubber trap my hands became a spider the kitchen I began to shape had lots of steam but no chowder I had no choice but to press my hands on the splashed wall the soldiers came by to check who gambled with patrol I had no time to make a sound no line, no story witness I only heard the bullet round divide my sticking fingers. Project Room 436 I am a special pebble I am the round headed pebble I drink dew, I wear dust I am the stones oldest rebel the smallest of the cast they dont see me as a brother never invited to a meeting often say, sand is my mother before they start the beating

I dont expect to make a wall nor seal the gate or pyramid before old citadels fall my button steals, the wind but I am proud to be a gland that doesnt grow to cancer they never picked me from the ground to stone a sinful ladder I am glad I am not a seed to birth the bark of hate the stones in rows late will heed cracks I met early at the gate. Project Room 437 Superiority contest I need to wash her head separately her knuckles do not match her thoughts her elbows are sharper than her chin the washboard is also a lotus of tears which do not match with sweat her heels are not as smooth as jaws it had been too long since the coal scrub the test which she passed during a phone conversion with a divorce attorney her bough armpits dont fear the bleach to which her crown is not immune so it whitened her cook book doesnt match the size of the mirror her nails are smoother than teeth her shoulders know nothing about the weight of the moon her uniform is shorter than the maiden hair pulled by shrubs in the park where we were too without the stars guidance the head makes a difference especially since it sits atop the knees know religion but the head bows before the umbrella ankles are plumes on the ground

eyes build the net for the umpire of rain the lap hosts an even plate or a computer but heads come on silver platter and cameras usually recognize the smile joints suffer from aging hospitality but the neck bears the kiss of a snake shoes are removed in hospitals but lashes call for nurses everywhere, superior treatment of that location, the head though young head is also blushing eruption when corporal tides are perceived as water guilt which wasnt pulled into the sea on time and like a dying fish is gauging its shadow and bodily responses on the air must have entered the washboard now the massage and rituals are useless unless they build a bigger bathtub but then I would lose my job as a hairdresser Project Room 438 Nomadic dust There was a spot where mud grew drier nomadic dust took all the blame and from that one intake of fire All people wore warmly the shame Still timid men dig a deep mine to come out mixed with solid ore never seen dust smitten slime to go back look for even more the train hauls them away from stars blasts to a tunnel, still stardust the oil hose that fires scars a wet mould track will lie to cast I I I I gain the courage of dead plant puncture wall and meet a rat crawl and sniff the moisture hunt wipe the dust off the old mat

Shoes once pretended to be true hunters of fate and final gush then took the dust veil, withdrew until I found the gold rush Just found gold among the rivers even earrings among the fish the talking bush where fire glitters is ash barking to windy leash. Project Room 439 Unequal fight Beside a plank stuck on the floor a wet feather swelled up to rest The pigeons reclining head Sat where the spot was best. Its feet firmly cemented with a fast balm had a fling One eye lashes augmented the other barely could wink. To aircraft the flying doorman does not seem a real threat the nest is smaller than the hangar eggs are not grown wheels yet. As neutral border to equal armies, stands clean the runway and suspends uncertain rivalry before the cargo flies away. While the tower gathers souls with other souls to negotiate the lying bird licks engine scrolls its chances to win arent great. The plane leaves sepulchral statues untouched, unhindered below the flying postman in the altar is praying for ashes to snow. Routes the same posture share the plane likes steady clouds

the flying climber doesnt care how old have grown the mounds. The planes become silent travellers as pilots say nothing all day each wing - so smoothly refined thunder needs awake to stay. The sky though knows which rival lands, for both fly the same. Race a new concoction takes. Cargo needs a larger crane. The bird had never retired a long letter found the vet an old engineer there vowed to keep the postman as a pet.
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