The Sleepless Flaneur

"I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!"  ― William Wordsworth   On the left side, there was a middle-aged man, sitting next to some reddish sacks filled to the brim with pyramids of dried apricots. He was clicking a silver coin near a magnificent fountain that used to play with energetic cadences and wonderful rhythms. It used to be the symbol of the souk. It was a pillar from the glorious past and an emblem of prosperity but now numbness found its way all over it while the torrid heat circled around its marble floor, getting yellowish. The seller's swollen tongue was mixed with an insatiable thirst. He felt lost as if he was in a scorched-brown desert that sowed a pan of emptiness, a coliseum of death. The grilled and blasted smell of the sun tiptoed so closely to his face. His lungs were huffing and as he averted his eyes to the oasis to recall the awe-inspiring images of the past, lamentations seemed to feast on his brain cells. The oasis looked like a...

  Love is a universal language torn by myths and poems. Lovers and prisoners lived on its sidelines, and existence centered around it, and empires fell for it. So I look into your eyes to write a new page in the books of love and the wine of life. I look. I never squint. I gaze.

With a pool of mystic eyes, With an avalanche of hope, It could make a sea-farer blind, It could stab the shore.   It was a non-profit glimpse, It was a leap onward, the breeze smoothed the cheeks and the dawn watered the miles.   As a fire place, I reckon. As a red vase, I stand.  

The burning sun, peeling off the skin of mankind, removing what is kind and unkind. It is flexing each muscle on us...barbecuing us, tormenting us, leaving us forlorn and forsaken. In a basin sea of shimmering swelters I found the rest of my skin bawling. I am mummified, entombed and crucified against the unbearable sun. I can't breathe, I can't go on, I am perplexed. I am lost amidst the flames of fire, I am accumulating water drops to mar the murky asphalt, it is like me, it is inside me. I am not me and it is not it.

 The document under analysis is a contemporary photograph. There is a middle-aged woman who is wearing a green jacket, a multi-colored plain-woven foulard, white earrings and a bracelet in her left hand. She is leaning her left hand on a tattered blue bar which creates a barrier between her and the figure she is trying to paint. Her eyes are goggled at the wall while her right hand is carrying a paint brush between her thumb and index finger. She is trying to paint a male figure. The skin of the foregoing figure is dark and yellow. He averted his eyes and to some extent he gives a stilted gaze. Next to the male figure we can see a couple of white flowers placed at the left corner.         We can interpret the aforementioned photograph in a multiplicity of ways. The colors used in the photograph represent a sense of serenity and harmony. The blue bar and some of the white scratches on it mark the periodic rise and fall of the sea level which reflects upon th...

My skin is plastic. he beclouds me, Shot by his cross-bow. I am mummified. Entombed by fragrant shroud, sweet-scented each night. I am molded and crowned by his mud and blood. Each time I revolve. The shimmering light, crawls to my eyes. Marred by his shape. The emerald grass, scatter along the epitaph. It howls at the undertaker. Shielded by the fading voices. I absorb each echo, with a pool of mystic eyes. Worms feast on my breasts. My head a home for the cries, a phalanx with swords. I lay down forlorn, a dehydrated corpse. Sautéed before the dawn. Dethroned by him, scrubbed by his eyes. The water was salty. A naked incubus. he mutes me, yet I shriek again. I hear his prayer, scratching my veins. I remedy myself. Only for his skin, to beautify its wrinkles, against the clammy air. Tomorrow shall visit, with no appointment. Welcomed by I. So the shroud shall be, a banner of gleam, Over the dark swamp.

A: I don't have a Calender. B: What a jaded and tarnished view.! A: I might come tomorrow. B: Tomorrow won't come tomorrow. A: Maybe today. B: Maybe yesterday. A: I don't know. B: What is tomorrow if it is not a present procrastinated or a past that didn't catch the train of midnight.? A: I have lost my ticket.

The legends of the first painted by fire gods and demons. How can I paint you and I am between fire and water? Drowning has become a refuge... And fire became a light, like your eyes The blackness of the universe is tiring. Your eyes are as black as the light before the dawn. You're beautiful like the church hymns in the evening. As the day of resurrection and the last call. And sweet as the dew drops... Like the voice of revolution and poetry of the left. Painting needs a brush. And legend needs history. And church bells need a saint. And your laugh erases the spheres and all the legends and history I keep an eye on you in the nebula of the universe. And curse December and all the endings. And I see you sitting on the poetry ladder. Where the alphabets stand in astonishment...

Hell is another realm of truth transformed into a heaven forgotten and forsaken. It is a duality of both good and evil, married in a coffin and divorced in a tomb. What is this existence?, It is a shadowy circus that frowns and nods and make people applaud and watch the clock. It made them swallow the sand to rest and walk on it to reach the chair of rest, in a weary path which is motionless and paralysed, promising nothing and calling for nothing more than nothing.

In a long obscure and forlorn route, haunted by fallen leaves and passing winds.  A wind that is murmuring and blowing in a strange city. An inclement and murky vision dominated the miles ahead and the bushes were covered by plastic waste and only thistles are gazing at the soiled asphalt.  Atreus was like a wandering sheep in this city, with no one to take his hand or keep him company. Suddenly, untypical things happened on this Saturday night. His head felt unsteady, a huge wave of dizziness swept over him so violently, and the street began to spin in a zigzagged way. In the next minute, his heart started to beat and leap-up like a soccer ball bouncing on the floor.  Almost immediately he struggled to get his breath as he placed his hands over his eyes and pressed his forehead feebly and continuously. His mind was clouded in a swirl of different images like a whirling eddy. Sweat seemed to engulf and overwhelm him from everywhere and every gaze was like a touch of tor...

Atreus straightened and cleared his throat and he was trying with a glimmer of hope to keep the words in his mind. The weather was warm with never-ending puffy clouds, suggesting rain later in the day. He slipped his hands on his coat pocket, And despite the crowdness of the passers and the hustle and bustle, he found in a glimpse a poor cat going in a painful walk and his head was low and his tail hung lifelessly. As weakness and jellification seemed to opiate and hypnosis his tired aching muscles like a jellyfish. He diminished and dwindled in size and his fur becomes dirty no longer soft or fluffy. But he was moving fearless uncaring about the passers like a captain marching through the dim sea or an emperor with his own majesty, going straight to the Trash container with an unbowed head. Atreus was well-renowned for his magnanimity and pride, he narrowed his eyes and moved cautiously and his voice trails off along with his gaze asking about the cat's life clenching his yellow...

I see the beauty within you Lurching from word to word, I feel spellbound. Unlock your heart to mine, Till the earth reboot. We will pause together... As long as the evaporation of the dim sea. keep me there for post-apocalyptic literature. If the earth pauses, And the clocks are broken. The rivers will no longer creak, And the animals yammer and bleat. The earth will call your frabjous name, will put it in an iconic frame. Carry your soul hither and thither, As a gospel, a lantern, a spell, an antidote... To finish the pause... And let the traffic light play with colours.

The fog melted away. Windows no longer borded up from the inside or the sun struggling to break through the fog. The sun came suddenly like a café customer and the shadows danced and played weakly in the street as the overhead trees shimmered in the first breeze of the new day and the dazzling morning sky looked superb like a well-clothed Queen. The early morning dew was refreshing and fabulous for Atreus, it sent him a little boost of joy like recharging his batteries. He looked up and down the street that looked like a labyrinth. Moments later, Atreus felt in himself a growing thirst to relax in the café in front of him. It wasn't a big or fancy one. It was a popular café whereby a number of customers dispersed throughout the corners in green scattered wooden chairs like right and left parties. Most of them were smoking hubble-bubble and drinking tea. The eldery people were engaging themselves in games of backgammon and cards. Among them there was a middle-aged waiter carrying a ...

The sun begins to rise increasingly outpootring sparkling rays of light over the snowy-white marble octagonal minaret. The bakeries would be working and most of the workers sweating by the heat of ovens. The uncountable frabjous flocks of birds were overjoyed due to the early morning dew, a refreshing dew that creates a sense of euphoria. They offer jubilation to the passers's ears. With an attractive smile and a gleeful mood nothing could hinder Atreus from a splendid morning walk in the souk's corners. Some moments later the weather decided to be in a boundless connection with the bakeries' ovens. There was an old merchant riding a dark brown skinny donkey as the water trough shone glamorously under the old men's dowdy and shabby burnoose. He took groggirly a convoluted worn white handkerchief from his pocket, Ran it slowly in his wrinkled forehead dazedly, then wiped his neck. It was quiet boiling and humid, for about 41 Fahrenheit. It was an asphalt-melting weather....

He was a poor shepherd who lived alone in a hut. He used to cross swamps and lakes in order to find the grass for his sheeps. Only two loafs of bread a day is what the years made him eat, and each time you look into his shabby clothes and the wrinkles that made his face looks like a map; you can behold the betterment of life and the torment of several melancholy years. The groan and moan of the days are traced and seen. But he was a wise old man with a sharp eyes and a soulful soul. Add to that he likes his dog who stood unflichingly against all forms of danger that may threaten his company. But the dog wasn't a strong one, he was as small as the shepherd's dreams. The shepherd enjoys sitting near the river tilting his head in the grass, singing hymns and looking at the starry night, moving far away to the galaxies with imagination and hope for a better future. Always rambling and roving in various spheres... he heard one day about a new doctor so he decided to talk with him be...

Six o'clock in the evening at boulevard 16. Hour after hour, second after second. I stay locked in a private room In a laptop square, they call it Art. And my window in front of an American restaurant. My cup of tea with eastern taste. And the night wind brutilizes the walls. As I obey and obey and laugh... To the ticking of Tips, Endless peeping comments, And the ghostly green dots in front of me. I hear voices from pole to pole And barking dogs marching next to the restaurant. The steak odour sneaks from my window.. And the horde won't wait for late dilevery.

I in the waves of the forgotten sea.. and she in the river of Styx... We echo in forlorn temples.. And we meet in the desert of lost souls. Untouchable, unseen and unknown.

The smell of rain is sulphonic. Trees are surrounded by chthonic, And the winks are demonic Mice are crossing the smock stack. A blizzard outside and a buzzard inside, And I all forlorn. I refrigerated my mind in the freezer. Sliced my heart in the pan, microwaved my brain cells. In slow motion. I thwacked destiny with a plaque. ran smack into the knickknack, crushed the blackjack. A thimble of hope. An empty chair at the corner of the room. A picture of an epigraph, an image of a grey epitaph. A can of sardines. A lovely view of Calla Lily. Silence all over the room, some laments of the unknown. Tintinnabulation.

I turned off the light of the world. If you would like to find me, burn yourself. I like you as the scintillating flame. Even if you cause hefty maim, you remain an iconic frame. I'd like to catch you in a fete. keep asking you to differentiate, and make you blate. I'd like to offer you a flower. even if you dwell in a bower, I make your ponytail scour. The frabjous shape of your nose. makes my mind blows, and uttering prose. Your appealing eyes make me berserk. even in the depth of murk, I always lurk. I'd like to cross with you hemispheres. Sail with you across frontiers, and gather a myriad of souvenirs. I travel with you to festive powwows. kiss your lips in Winnebagos, While we stop in Laos. Direct me with your light. The compass of my soul shall delight, I will be your knight. You are a sparkling bewitching star. when you walk onward from afar, the earthly mosses mar. I like it when you sip liquor. or just jibber-jabber and bic...

I have made a boat and the sea gets dried. I have broken the boat and the rain started to clatter down. Where am I supposed to sit my anchor.? At the bottom of the deep when no one dares to or somewhere between hope and despair.? I have been sandwiched in between.. like a mountain that the earth divorced and the sky neglected. I feel like a red dot, a grammar mistake in the text of the world. I roved forlorn in boundless spheres and weary paths, I refrigerated my mind, microwaved my brain cells, sliced my winks...Just to meet the coldness of the world and the icy souls of the land. A coldness that is so dull and motionless. Even the rain doesn't fall Charlotte, it is a mimetic act of people's sorrow. As long as it raining you can imagine the amount of losses. It is like that Charlotte. It is portrayed in the accumulated water pools, in the leaves, in the streets and above human thought, deep, so deep where nobody dares to see or behold. I have always felt that I belong to th...