26.8.09

she was sitting there(she wasn't wearing glasses)


she thinks of all the things not to write. of a headache she doesn't have.

"are you trying to tell me, you think men have a bigger brain than women?"
"no! but, i mean..scientifically they do. but it's not about that..."
"are you fucking kidding me?"

nope. they never kid. even if they laugh it off, kiss your hand, and/or shed a tear when you leave.

25.8.09

august, too thowsend nien.


chagall


august spilled all over me

you dared

silent, scared, tired

sweat-hugging brows

and frowns.

simplicity shut their mouths

sorry ,

when I hit your car

I’m sorry,

for stealing your star.

september fell over

october hit hard

winter lasts

for days

and flickerings

and sounds of neighbours warming their feet

hair falls from trees

wine goes down

throats get stuffed.

sailing on a subconscious midnight stream

let’s waste our time in spring

and come back to life in yet another nap

look at the ceiling

it’s august again.


19.8.09

impulsive pulsates




we the weekend lovers
last minute surprises
condescending gazes
superficial marvels

we are modern music:
minimal
progressive
independent

we can be as cheap as chopsticks
or as rich as everything in between

but we can only be us
for a little while longer.

17.8.09

tor·ture


• Pronunciation: ˈtȯr-chər
• Function: noun
1 a : anguish of body or mind : agony b : something that causes agony or pain
2 : the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure
3 : distortion or overrefinement of a meaning or an argument: straining


....“Do you understand the process? The Harrow is starting to write. When it’s finished with the first part of the script on the man’s back, the layer of cotton wool rolls and turns the body slowly onto its side to give the Harrow a new area. Meanwhile those parts lacerated by the inscription are lying on the cotton wool which, because it has been specially treated, immediately stops the bleeding and prepares the script for a further deepening. Here, as the body continues to rotate, prongs on the edge of the Harrow then pull the cotton wool from the wounds, throw it into the pit, and the Harrow goes to work again. In this way it keeps making the inscription deeper for twelve hours. For the first six hours the condemned man goes on living almost as before. He suffers nothing but pain. After two hours, the felt is removed, for at that point the man has no more energy for screaming. Here at the head of the Bed warm rice pudding is put in this electrically heated bowl. From this the man, if he feels like it, can help himself to what he can lap up with his tongue. No one passes up this opportunity. I don’t know of a single one, and I have had a lot of experience. He first loses his pleasure in eating around the sixth hour. I usually kneel down at this point and observe the phenomenon. The man rarely swallows the last bit...'

--------------------------In the Penal Colony -Kafka

7.8.09

bread crumbs









some days i think about writing new stories, and i get excited.
some days i think about writing a story, or finishing an old one, and it horrifies me.

and some days i cheat death. like last week. or a few weeks ago.

some days i wish i knew what he’s thinking.
some days i wish we weren’t thinking.

and yesterday i decided to be a redhead. because maybe then, this greenness that has surrounded me will be more manageable.
but today i’m fine. i have my coffee and my fingernails each a different colour, dancing on the keyboard...

just thought i should let you know.

4.8.09

برای نژاد سبز


پیکر خشک و خیس و تلخ ات

روبروی ما

از تو میلرزد

"اعتراف کن"

ما گوش نمی دهیم

"اعتراف کن"


ما گول نمی خوریم



بیا تا فوت کنم روی زخم ات

بیا تا بوس اش کنم

نگاهت کنم

تو را

خودت را



لای عقربه ها می مانیم

می شکنیم – با هم- اگر بشکنیم



این تکه گوشت های لهیده

توی سردیِ خانه

یا سرد خانه ها

چه می کنند؟



صندلی تنهایش را مگر آنقدر می پرستد،

که روی چنار ها و رُس و گندم و سیب، روی شهر،

قرمز بپاشد

و توی ذهن قیر؟

مگر راه بهشتِ طلاکوب تان

انقدر تنگ و تاریک

خسیس و باریک است؟

*

چراغهای کوچه

زرد

30 سال سوسو زدند

امروز

یک سیل- مرد و زن

سبز

پس از سالها چرتِ دزدکی

با برگهای سوخته

شاخه های خود چیده

وساقه های سرخ

کم کم از لای آجرها می رویند

آجرها کم کم می ریزند:

وای به مزدوری که تک پا تکیه داده به دیوار


toronto-09