From It’ll Never Be Over For Me by Mark Lamoureux

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From It’ll Never Be Over For Me


Mark Lamoureux


after The Nite-Liters




a staircase, yellow,

plastic & full

of air.  Something pale

from the automat,

headlong, sidelong into

the wireless future.

The kiss of a suture,

the cinnamon spark

that eats up

the fuse.  What results

is something

that one saw

coming, from the vantage

above the food court,

where the fountain reached,

deaf & dumb

toward the lacquered ceiling.

They fill it

with pennies.  Pennies

for ice cream, pennies

for the long afterlife.

The mute slot like a weeping

snake-eye.  Multiple sixes

to the nines.

It’s not the end

of the world.

Dance dance dance

under the fireflies, under

the seeking planes, crucifixes

dripping antifreeze,

UFO pips, the stupid translucence

of the inside

of the dice.



Morning, noon & The Nite-Liters.  Nothing light about a band of seventeen whose biggest hit would peak at seventeen, heavy numerology.  Brothers & sisters tattooed by trumpets & guitars, some groovy sans-serif.  Not the only good thing besides Kentucky Fried Chicken to come out of Kentucky, quipped the Channel 13 DJ on November 1, 1972 as he proceeded to bungle the dudes’ names while they killed it onstage in matching baby blue sailor suits to an all-black crowd, PBS still segregating acts in ’72, the real deal not much like Sesame Street ,but it sounded cooler at any rate.  Becoming New Birth to summarily die—they had it & lost it all in the Hollywood Haze, hemorrhaging members across the decade, done by ’79—Nite-Lite(r)s out, enter monsters.



after Bobbi Lynn

Lined up behind the dull chrome of the clouds,

the armies of ruin, prepped to drag premises all along

the neglected ground.  Brown dirt the universal principle

of absence, world opened like an orange.   We perturb

its thin skin only.  What waits for us in the alien core,

geoded bubbles harboring air unblemished by the stain

of our being.  What lies below: iguanas the size of dinosaurs,

three-lidded demons or some abhorrent mycelium,

immortal, uninterested in us.  No shaker of earth,

this God—so who to curdle & still the shifting plates

that sleep below our folly?  Fear always what lies

below, but look always there.  You, named to bury

your dead.  Conjugal bed of mind & universe, the union

so poisonous to skin—that bower that calls to us in low

frequencies, whips up the puddle of the oceans.  This life

a mad dash away from Mother’s arms until we are called

home by the booming voice, inexorable but inexplicable,

but we still too young to answer.



You know in life, some people try to make it, some don’t.  Some keep trying, some give up.  I tried to make it & this is my story.  Well I was born just around the corner, about half a block from Opportunity Street.  I lived 18 years of good memories; I’ve had 27 since, every meal to eat.  I met a boy just around the corner about half a block from Opportunity Street.  He had charms at 20 nearly drove me mad, but he stole my love, took everything I had on Opportunity Street.  It seems to me that I could see there must be another way, but some don’t get another chance & I guess I’ll have to stay.  Now a word to all you people, about half a block from Opportunity Street.  Listen to me, if you lived the life you planned to be, just make about face & take a look at me: Opportunity Street.


Statement:  These pieces are from a project called It’ll Never Be Over For Me, which is a meditation on the Northern Soul youth culture in the U.K. in the 70s and beyond, whereby the kids formed this kind of cargo cult around obscure African American soul records from Detroit & elsewhere, among other things.  The book takes the form of lyric glosses on the songs themselves coupled with prose investigations of the (often tragic, sometimes privileged, sometimes unknown) lives of the songwriters.


Poetry by Ali Znaidi 

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Ali Znaidi 



deeply                                            breathe






to caress

the paper





the veins


perspire                                            inspire

& w/ the



Desire = = = P O E/M


[castration] [silencing] [weakening] [sterilization]

[deprivation] [maiming] [taming] [demonization]

[torturing] [persecution] [prosecution] [tormenting]

[manacling] [fettering] [hampering] [ shackling]

[ institution] [establishment] [ domination] [intimidation]

[browbeating] [beating] [eating] [milking]

[bludgeoning] [coercing] [dragooning] [terrorizing]


But remember there is a smouldering ember

(in your heart)

that is capable of thawing all kinds of cuffs—


brackets, b/r/o/k/e/n


a poetic lexicon


paper is like a playground waiting for innocent kids to caper

ink is the most sacred sweat, don’t you think?

rhyme is a dancing body’s heat combating icy rime

image is what you find in your mind’s attic after a good rummage

verse is that pearl you choose among precious stones, so diverse

simile is as sweet and beautiful as a certain winsome Emily

refrain is that lotion that lubricates the poem w/ the scents of rain

sound is that sweet tune of jubilant raindrops falling on a thirsty ground

musing is that moment of revelation that is deep & amusing

word is that far-fetched siren you bring from the realm of the absurd

strophe is when the caged bird repeats its tweets waiting for freedom trophy

poetry is a mesmerising Eve lying on the grass under an Eden’s fig tree

The Verse


The verse can be angelic

The verse can be perverse

The verse can be satanic

The verse can be diverse

The verse can shut up

The verse can converse

The verse can hide

The verse can traverse

The verse can reorder

The verse can reverse

The verse can be spontaneous

The verse can be transverse

The verse can be pleasant

The verse can be adverse

The verse can embody sameness

The verse can embody the obverse

Nothing can I say but,

‘long live the verse!’

‘long live the verse!’

‘the verse!’

A Poetic Statement:


Poetry: A Simplified Definition


Watered by blood and sweat,

Poetry is like a grain of wheat.

It only sprouts by spreading its spikes

in papers plowed by  a free bird’s tweet.

Originally appeared in on 27/06/2012

Bio:  Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English. His work has appeared in The Rusty Nail, The Tower Journal, Mad Swirl, Stride Magazine, Red Fez, & other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). From time to time he blogs at –