Poetry by M. Ait Ali


The devils laugh
At our misery
Of daffodil tears,
Of Gorgeous women
Reading no men's diaries…

The angels even despise us;
They say things like:
“Behold them, they had Beethoven
Although no ears!”

The rats like us best;
They'd rather gnaw et us dead:
“They taste horrible when alive.
They're sad—even sadder in love—
Ever more dead when they head
To their pillows and blankets,
Barely having tasted dinner…
Pity!”

It's a tragedy
We'd smile an inch wide, and
Then schedule crying parties
Every orphaned evening; lonely in our dishes;
Encircled by what’ve slipped from our grip. 

TV shows turn into thoughts of suicide.
Books adorned with glitter—
Bereft of luster from within.

It's getting a sick show
Of wires, inflated behinds,
Lousy makeup…
Men committing crimes
Against their beards;
Unbecoming in their childlike games;
Dumb and dumber while in love;
Committing no art.

I see a pile of clocks; however, no time at all
I see a pillow of frosty thirty years, though padded with steel and thorns.

I see a man standing,
Resolved to feel proud—
I Wonder the least
When the earth
Will swallow him up.

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