Andi Zeneli ©

You reap what you dream

  

Project Room 140

A bird form in a treeon the lawn of St. Elizabeth'sreminded charted hippopotamusof the famous statueAfrican thoughtsdreaming on a sunny brain

like an overfed lackey on a greasy riverSometimes fat boulderslevel the wheels of musicand their carriage ride to drowned alleyswhose lotus eaters did battery to the spheres' intentThe opium smokers here are rhymedwith lazy crocodilesSometimes divert their poor teethwith eel fishers they are tied

Project Room 141

For a long time I used to scream from the docksa ship must go to bed earlyfull of cats afraid of waterI often play with my candlemy wax mousered and yellow tongue and sometimes greenthe holes on walls would close so quicklythat I had not even timeto hide and seek my eyespaint cracks nor loose nor tied in formal platthe clock of fear laterthe compass of sleep would point northa magnet toothproclaimed in the mouth the taste of pridemy tongue tuckeddescended the sheaved praisewhere earth quakesHanging the pined cheek beside the docksthe fillet of the shoreimpressed onto the cover of a bookFor a long time I used to scream from the shelvestrue to bondage of readingI would not break from thencedry clothes from a flaming building

Project Room 142

Nocturnal assaultOn anything blueNaked dreams wonderWhere my secret liesPhenomenally lazyI walk into a denBuilt by a rabbit or a marmotI could even sleep in a hive of beesOnce I found an ant in my paw

Omnivore youthMy diet includes berries, cherriesAnd fresh starsI fast when I dateYet I store extra food under leaves or snowInvertebrates are at the bottom of my listHunters have wonderedWhat game domino they see in my eyesHounds can't smell my mysteryClouds can't event compete with my sportsThe arch of my backThe swing of my waistEven when I try to slow downMy iris and wrinkles cannot live togetherNow you understandMy body exists largely outside of the forestMy head is nimbleMy rainbow not bowedMy secret desire is to buy another fur

My gait as if I am on heelsMy neck bent as if I had hairThe palm of my handThe glove of my shadowI whisper when I shoutI smile when I swearI'm not cuteHungry even when fullYet experts of fashionHire models of my size

It's in the reach of my feetThe span of my hips

The stride of my stepThe swing in my waistYou have been here too long to seeI am fox and can't be tamed

Project Room 143

Snail of desire, terrestrial tongueAll the world's at warWith the easily harvested source of proteinAnd all the turtles are merely shieldsThey have exits and entrancesTheir ivory dice plays many partsOf a book counting seven pagesSwaddling the infantMewling waves like breasts suckling inkThe sand swallowing toys baked in the furnaceSnail of desireIt seemed as if we trudged along for grassesAs we trudged along meridiansWe forgot how cold it was at the tranchesAll the world's at war with timeHer satchel and shining schoolgirl faceFull of strange oaths and young horoscopesFormally cut like a beardBy grooming instancesSnail of desire, fossil libraryBurning time on the lean, slippery floorWith twisted spectacles on the marble noseAnd porch on sideburnsOur youthful hoseWell stuck in a shell world-wideWorker of turtles, dealer in imitationIvory thoughts purée of alchemyCooked with parsley butter in a shieldAnd bloodstains of pretty visionsThat coiled constellations in the adult stageThe snail of desire the voracious diary keeperFeeding on tender booksDesert manuals with strawberries, applesAnd even turnips

Appearing morning and evening after rainDecked all in mudWith shy sleeves slit to the elbowLike cartridges slashed with various purplesSnail of desire travelled the worldYou promised me the centuryBut can't climb the hourly glass

Project Room 144

Squirrels had been thinking all the timeUntil they became the subject of a beech bookRabbits were asleepA church developed long ears around their nestMice had just been readingBut their thoughts had run into a cat channelCrickets would run a quartetCaterpillars climbed the monumentsIn the rivalry between beetles and grasshoppersI was awake as crayfishThe burrs on my eyesPrevented them from registering the factThat the moon larvae were no longer growing

Project Room 145

It's not flames but vine tendrilsPlaited to the trellis of my chestGardens would separate themselves from mePlum trees would grow salty fruit like blue tearsLeaving me free to chooseWhether I would splash them on my faceAt the same time my sight would return to orange batsI would be astonished to find myself in a state of rockPleasant and restful enough for the backIt's not the flames but cool silkWithout a cause, a matter white indeedSmooth asphalt of the sealSqueaking like obese brakes

Of the milking machineParked in the deserted gardenThrough which orphaned weedWould be hurrying towards the nearest stationStriped mugs have these watermelonsThe path that they scentedBeing fixed for ever in their memorabiliaIt's not the flames growing in a strange placeDoing unusual things to bird foodCandlestick to farewellsExchanged beneath an unfamiliar treeWhich echoed still in painted embersTo the delightful prospectOf being once again a bricked wallI would lay my bricked cheeksAgainst the shield of my pillowAs burned and tarred as the shield of the fallIf you add more leaves to a fallen willowThat will not grow its pyre tall

Project Room 146

Because of the Cuban embargoPeople sniff the smell of burnt secretsA brigade of apologies drive upInto the calm of the cabinWhere curtains quakeSeaweed grants grass allureTo the harbinger of summer dirgeAnarchy of black milkOfficially approves the antagonist droughtMoisture ascertainsWhat happened to self denying rainOn the wet asphaltMilitary posters adorn themselvesUnder a canopy of gullsTriumphant passenger, the vegetarian smileAmends the views of the highway escapeThe ebb tide instantly outstretchedPlants a tail on the shore

Then goes out to ride seahorsesBecause of the Cuban embargo

Project Room 147

You were right the notebook was a giftSalt clog of tearsUlcer booking of the seaOutside my windowYour skin still brown from time poresBut I pretended not to noticeYou just turn and walk awayCanvas ammunitionThat lend protection to the things I fearedLet us stop at the well-headRedhead of citizenshipThat grows undergroundAnd draws food and water from the soilRoots are hairIn an amazing construction of whirls and ribbonsYou were right the notebook was a seasonDrawn by fours horses in all directionsIts sickle wagging the tail before the cartWord smith, false-pastoral grassYour hand is leaf-likeYour old comet with an endless beardIce pigeon rooting about for foodYou dug trenches to shelter the riverAnd its fish petThe nasal bishopFor the holy handkerchiefYou were right the notebook was a brickYou would always send good picturesYour baked mud the perfect souvenirI pretend not to notice bog blinkersYour well-head would just disappear

Project Room 148

Earn the legend of insulinMean speaker of honeyVeteran of waxed easelRetirement of the beesFailure of the inhaling jarTo discover the bracing air overnightWhich brooms secure radianceThe leathered visa of the hunterPinging through the flowery pulleySitting exalted aloftThe salt of the surveying snowOn the land of the writers

Project Room 149

Tier a wedding cakeAmendment of preludesWhich may sometimes show signs of repentanceAltering or adding glucose to a photoDiscover the colours of the deodorantBlown from the cigarChampionship of smokeYoga of the fireWarm braceletLost on the battlefieldBurning the canisterAnd the switched manuscript

Tier a wedding cakeHeal the sinus of intellectual gumRetreat to flamingo benchAnd the sandy convention of unemployed cousinsSanitation of the knifeWheat nationalityVegetarian toothbrushThe urn of the armyDigest the ashesUpgrade the kitchenwareTo the anvil glassSafe for skateboarding

Project Room 150

The bacteria publisherAwakens in a moment of illnessAnd sees with relief a streak of dream lightShowing under his microscopeThe lung terminal of the bedroom roseBehind the leadership of the servantsFate will be about in a minute

The bacteria publisher can ring the indemnity rivetAnd the guard will change the grade of timeQuoting the slippery parquetThe water beneath comfort gives him strengthHe is certain he heard the epidemic trainHe saw the mute graphite on the jukeboxThe undergraduate lace will inform the physicianHow to endure the pain of the dark-painted moon

Project Room 151

I made the cow on my coinDrink her own milkThe chemotherapy of black coffeeIron thermostat of the flute hornI use age as a detergent to wash bovine hairSample of the dairy product on the anniversary deltaThe hour when a riverHas been obliged to start on a journeyAnd to sleep in a strange motel

I made the fox on my coinBite her own tailThe carnivore thief would fall asleepThen she would cry again in painFor short snatches onlyJust to raise her blanket of escapeA usually decorative covering for a bedIn a cheap motel

I made the bat in my coinDrink his own bloodFace lotion of the lampshadePale light drips like waxCreaking on the wainscot of the caveOne day I will be that old on the coinAnd grow extra skinTo build my own wingsAnd leave the counter of a cheap motel

Project Room 152

WrittenWhere the quiet-coloured insecticide inkBrightens the pert avalancheEnd of the evening softwareThat provides extensionFor the sweatshirt printsMiles and miles garment of the capitolCommit a historical commaon the solitary prize hueOf the bride prismPrior to passion

WrittenHalf-asleepFor four players of the horizon on horsebackWho are equipped with long-handled malletsFor driving a pine coneThrough the twilight goalThen they stray homewardAs they cone crops the lighting plaque

WrittenWhere there was the site of a clinical thesisIncorporatedSo they sayWith the inland historyOf our country's very ion innIts alphabetical princesAges since the island of sweet water was ill

Project Room 153

Now the cheque does not even boast a treeEucalyptus therapyTo distinguish slopes of verdureAnd the girdle of rillsFlax dated cartridgeMade of marbleVeins might march on or be pressedTwelve abreast

Now the cheque does not even boast a chimneyThe funereal of poker still lives in the ashesAnd such perfection, see, of hay never wasMirage frequent bird of a master aerieWinter ointment for summer woundsSuch a carpet decorated with stoneLightweight lady puckWhere a multitude of fruit breathed joy and woe

Now the single cheque that remainsDoes not even boast a forked turretThe green income of the saladKitchen assignment by the caperPerennial staplerBinding lathe to the axis of mathematical birth

Now the single cheque does not even boastA liability hangerWhose borstal rodCould be detainedFor corrective cavalier trainingOver rooted by the gourd of coinsRattling in a pocketWhile the patching trousers of winksWould spring and trace blind chariotsAs they raceAnd the sun and his minions and his damesWould view the games

Project Room 154

Green?Him?Was the mushroomAfter all a corrupter of youthsAnd deserved his pillowcase?Tax previous typewriter erosionLike ancient tapestryOffshore pall photocopierOften made of black, purple, or white selectionAgainst memoryOr to speak plainerAnd for the baton collectionThe selection against the ancient velocityfor speed is hair implantFor the youthsFurious buds produced in the gardenA magnificent mushroom tensionSuch as had not existed in the gardenPreviouslyWith such a tensely strained bridle tideOne can now aim a cheap potpourriAt the furthest shores

Project Room 155

Hypnosis toasterOpal yacht of dry breadBell counterfeit the hail of crumb nitYard tellerAs a matter of factThe horticulture draws this graphic umbrellaAs a state of exposureAnd twice attempts have been madeIn grand style to unbend the briefcaseOnce by means of carpentryAnd the second timeBy means of sportswearWhich, with the liberty of adventureAnd hose-fire readingMight, in fact, bring it about

That the hypnosisWould not so easily find itselfHidden in insomnia!The clouds invented gunpowder-all credit to them!But they again made things squareThey invented tooth printing, dentistryBut we, who are neither fruitsNor mushroomsNor even sufficiently cloudsWe good huntersAnd free, very free wild couriersWe have it stillAll the weld hormone of an unmarried filterAnd perhaps also the sleep marrowThe duty of heavy bonesAnd, who knows?The bow to aim at….

Project Room 156

I want the diagnose over the bridgeTo inject my blood into a willowAnd shoot its sap into my veinAnd i knowWhile thus the wreath functionprides to leave the capital retinaTo its folding spy teapotBrine radiator, stowaway of loveA soul who hides aboard a heartOr other romantic conveyanceIn order to obtain free passageTo a female tickling fleeceIn such obsolescent peaceBridge digestion and its liquidsThe heart reels - a celebrity on the red carpet

I want the diagnose in a spaWith eager eyes and yellow hairIvy tournament awaits me thereDust the chandelier of discoveryHoist experiences upon the cityImmortal blood leaves my body from every side

All the vaults are topped with red stainsThe cologne of the willow still burning on my faceI see toys embraceAll the glades of township ginsengI see a market garageSell sandwiches below the colonnadesAs I am stuckWith willow sap in my internal labyrinth

Project Room 157

My floral quest canned into a medal of honourThe eyeglass points straight to postman's heartSeptic gate infected with clean knocksRecurring branch with a similar designLike a grapefruit that owns orange copyrightsI have drunk many faces in my cupOnce even i slurped a whipped queenI wear many medals of coffee on my shirtOnce I got a dark constellation on my trousersI wish souls had lips and drank coffeeHere at the airport with me.

Project Room 158

I hold within my swamp handMy bodyweightWeight of charcoalStamp of fire out of the courtAll heart acreEtiquette in the cold light of dayYet how it creepsThrough the worse for wear weeds

I stand amid a camp fireOf a surf tormented logYet I hope that i might steal a marchSome say march on a beamThe jurisdiction over log affairsI will put timber fingers beside moccasins

Which are fewYet more than a framed windowOn the ground in stitchesWaiting for curtains to come.

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