The Sense of being; and what not.

You thought the answers would’ve emerged with the experience acquired, you believed the promises of blue elders, who told you that time was a friend and age was just a number. Others before you who stated you were a shadow of…

The teenager who couldn’t translate his feelings

Opening the door carefully, Amir came in, back from his late soccer training. His younger brothers were already sleeping. Well, not all of them; Malik’s bed was empty. That rascal! Out in the night again! After all those reprimands, he does not learn how to behave. He just feels and does whatever he pleases. And…

Salt

I am a drop

of salt

lost in

the sea …

Musical prompts 1: The Pugilist

Pugilist: [pyoo-juh-list] A person who fights with the fists; a boxer, usually a professional. I’ve fallen, deep into something I can’t quite call love, for it could lead to misunderstandings, romance as the top of mind in most heads, but love has many forms, and there is this one, that still makes my skin turn…

Quantum Immortality//

The roaring gunshot is the last thing I hear this time, knowing that this will  be the last time I’ll see your light brown eyes. No more false alarms or extra chances will be given to rewind. Whose chest has it struck? Yours or mine?  I continue to ask myself this as I close my…

Sea lion

Southern sea lion Happy whiskers always smiling Freedom near an ocean     Poem: haiku (a very short form of Japanese poetry, made up of 17 syllables). Image: myself at Cabo Polonio on the Atlantic Ocean. The Spanish text means “Culture of freedom”. By Luca Arnaldo Read more texts by this author

Less than a minute

They say love comes with time. Love is a progression of feelings. But how this is possible when we fall for a person in less than a minute?   By Rim Zeiny   

Anthropophagy

Primitive instinct makes you eat up every word, a new world is thrown. Haiku in memory of the Cannibalist Manifesto, by Brazilian poet Oswald de Andrade (1928) Painting: Abaporu, by Brazilian female painter Tarsila do Amaral (1928) By Luca Arnaldo Read more texts by this author

Hopscotch 51

Cortázar is a great bus seat companion, that book over my lap, helping pretend that whatever is going on around me, isn’t. There I am, huge moving vehicle, a bright blue neon light over my head, women-objectifying music blasting in the radio, loud, but not loud enough to block the sound of trembling glass of…

Ghosts.

Tell me how I am supposed to sleep when your ghosts are haunting my dreams, dancing around the surface of my skin, leaving traces of your cigarette smoke in my head like drunken feathers in clouds of twirls praying to be shot dead. By Rim Zeiny Read more texts by this author

2 a.m.

There’s something About The dark hours Of 2 a.m. That switches on The lanterns Along your spine And lets you see, Clearly, The words Gushing mutely Through your bones By Rupali Jeganathan read more texts by this author