Towards a Dialogical Linguistics of the Moon
She sat on the grass breastfeeding her baby, while looking at the moon.
She kept looking at the moon: The whole story up till now unrecognizable.
The moon here is not her moon. Her moon instead something dialogical.
Her baby’s continuous sighs distracted her, so she couldn’t focus on
the moon. Those sighs meant NO point of view. What’s the point in
a story that pays NO attention to her point of view? No harmony. Not
enough hormones. Just nostalgia and moans—Just merciless headlines. NO
communication. Everything is different. Once again she looked at
the moon, while holding a broken twig and orienting to an unknown
orientation. Is this what she’s looking for—something new, a moon less
shiny than her own moon, her own moon, her own moon, a land devoid of
her own utterances? Or is it another kind of death, a final echo, a final
simulacrum of a voice? But to whom the moon beams pour down onto
the grass? Really to whom the moon beams change? Then there was silence.
Longing for Newer Versions
A bathtub is not just a container that you fill w/ water
& use to wash your body. A bathtub is not a place at
which you arrive dirty and from which you depart clean.
A bathtub is a place where you search for another body
especially when being told that your bod,,,;;;y is not
your real body or that it is a home field of aversions.
Even fashion models are obsessed w/ plastic surgeries. In
fact, obsessed w/ newer versions. They can be infatuated
to the verge of bathos: Just a longing for sedative path[o]s.
We are not ourselves anymore. We are
mere fragmented collage selfies.
In an Etsy of simulacra everyone’s mind
is burdened w/ a materialistic vision
& intrigue. That same still. That same
footage. How often do we recollect
our vintage black & white photos?
Really, how oftentimes? We put our
retro images in wax museums.
Dancing w/ the wind. Could we be
just disintegrated pixels in pursuit of
life & suits that aren’t our own?
Perfect faces. An asymmetrical mirage.
Embellished faces looking out the windows
of a speedy metro train, or to be precise, meteor.
Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He is the author of several chapbooks, including Experimental Ruminations (Fowlpox Press, 2012), Moon’s Cloth Embroidered with Poems (Origami Poems Project, 2012), Bye, Donna Summer! (Fowlpox Press, 2014), Taste of the Edge (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014), and Mathemaku x5 (Spacecraft Press, 2015).
His interests include poetry writing, making visual poems, learning languages and literary translation. He also blogs about Tunisian literature at: tunisianlit.wordpress.com.
For more details you can visit his blog at – aliznaidi.blogspot.com
and follow him on Twitter @AliZnaidi.