Back to the haiku.

My fault? Is it yours or theirs?

Followed to Denmark.


Do I owe myself

lentils? Damn I love it, to

treat me so temple-y.



medium exchange process.

Medium: not hot.


It’s up to the young:

unencumbered by this “me”,

no longer called “you”.


Lost life giving birth.

What is the meaning of fair?

I will miss her now.


Do is different

than desire, than dreaming.

Do is to move weight.


My skin: a thin hide.

So can I hide in my hide?

With no fur, it’s cold!


My broad shoulders speak

of long hot days, of lifting,

of the smell of grass.


Short biography:

she blinks big sleepy eyes and

her sparkling clothes speak.


As words compound, their

value plummets to dark depths,

lost from a meaning.


“Am I two?!” I yell,

But my mouth is a silent

estuary: breath.


Remember that day?

Man, it was hilarious.

I always loved that.


Gosh, I hope today

the sun shines so bright I fly

for the fun of it.


An accidental haiku by Safa Boussada: 

I think that we ate

a nostalgic cake, that’s why

we began writing.


This decadent room,

its gold chandelier swinging,

lies about sadness.


I think that there is wine

spilled on the seat of my chair.

The ghost of one night.


They put hood and go.

Violate his human right;

helpless as father.


Stagnation; nation

of stags silently frozen,

hearing empty winds.


Baby, I jumped that

train like it was oxygen,

GASP thump-thump running.


What is manifest?

Ow, it hurt my knees to stand

the cold August day.


The enemy is

out there, build our great fortress!!

Oops: enemy in.


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