26.9.09

ritual killings


The song bang bangs
Into my stomach and impatiently escapes elsewhere in the body
Mistakes
Penetrate
And accelerate.

The wrinkled ones hang on to the street-car-poles
Look in the mirror in remorse
Years turn into days
Into second
Nobody cares
Unless
Useless
Ness
Less talk
Less talk
Try to listen
Note to self:
To do
To call
To e-mail
Mail
Message
Text
To buy
To sell
To care
To fuck
Ignore
Call back
Read later
Note to self:

Write this.

20.9.09

workdays

this is me working

this is my colleague



kitty, the-store-cat

12.9.09

today/tomorrow


Hair falling

Creeps calling

Best nights at homes in foreign words

Twisted saturated tongues

And lungs

I spoke with Europe

They want me to postpone my life

And those of hopeful slugs


The smoke burns our eyes eyes eyes

All these ‘I’s

And ‘u’s

Come on

There’s no us

Age crawling

Fights blowing

Bows crossing

Mind blogging acronyms of disguise


I cringe in the name of god

Fret in the ring of fans

Find my central organ this time

And destroy remnants of a busy afternoon

Leaks in the creeks of feathers that fall

Like hair

Falls falls falls


You are the wrong that makes it all right

and false.

8.9.09

mundane

you're so original
you know?
it makes me wanna...

aegh.

4.9.09









do
that little dance
that you do.

3.9.09

(o)ink


lets play a game:

I appear and talk really fast so you stay behind and walk really slow and words confuse us in an un-artistic, pretentious-seeking, attention-grabbing manner that provokes and passes the red light. yellow and then green. red all over again.

I call and you don't pick up and you call and i hang up and never check my voicemail not knowing you may have been dead or dying that day.

We act like there's no game.

And then you open your long greedy arms and I run away from you- so far- far away.
We become strangers unknowingly wishing to be friends.

The End.


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

30.7.09


- hey
- hi! you're back!
- yah!
- how was it?
- ummmm...it was...


(give me a bit more time, to be able to put it in words.)

28.5.09

22.5.09

The typewriter twits and tumbles
“hail to forgivable regrets”
Space, dot, dot, dot
“save me with a pen, not in my ass”
Dot, dot,
“he can’t find my doorstep”
Comma,
“and I can’t find his mistakes”
colon,
“....”
Period.

21.5.09


“Do you still love me?”
“Did I ever?”

message sent: 12:59 AM


I didn’t know myself back then. I just knew what it tasted like. And I could recognize sporadic, perverted gazes passing me by.
I still don’t know.
And I can’t do anything about it, other than crossing my fingers and desperately looking for lucky charms, pennies, and overlapping sentiments.
I guess, I already “miss-you”

19.5.09

rock, rock, rock


Oblivious glasses tear through the tire
subscribed, prescribed, and described
as an empty street

Filled with cribs that crack, suddenly
impotent parents leave them
as they enter the shopping mall
to buy ties
and tomatoes
and cloths to clean the red, diced, tomato-ties
Rock, rock, they do rock

tip toe around premises of adult behavior
the baby runs away

17.5.09

crycrycry

how
do
i
change
this
all?