Mooncake

I want to bake a mooncake.

When it is windy,
we are not that different anymore.

All the differences are swept
underneath God’s robe
and he melts them all at night
and makes a pair of eyes with them
for the next ill-fated baby.

I saw Benjamin.
and I told him about my prophecy:
“I portend future agony.”

Benjamin has the saddest eyes
ever written
to be given to a soul;

The eyes that worry,
the eyes that shine with fright,
the eyes that weep blood.

Big and blue.

Like that gem on that ring,
choking the swollen fingers of the man
who is laid there in an open casket
slowly decomposing.

I can hear the song of nullity
coming from his finger tips;

I can feel the smell of his bloodless brain.

I bow in respect
and I observe the little demons
flying off his skin;

His scent meets with my lips
as my lips throb
and shoot out captivating sparks...
flying off from me
into space
like phantoms...

I stole the hands of the last man
who kissed me...
to keep them for the day
when the wind blows again
and we’re not that different.

I’m going to bake a mooncake.

I make it from scratch:
with my own skin
that is glowing from the last moonburn
I got from my last calling
to the goddess.

I shape the dough
into two holes.
Deep caves...

The wind blows

and I have Benjamin’s eyes.

I caress my moonburned,
glowing skin
with the hands I stole from the last man who kissed me

I look through the saddest eyes in the world,

as I eat the last piece of me.

November 22, 2012

Purple

“Shhh . . . can you hear it?”
The notes stroke me,
like thunders of Zeus striking a sinner.
I just sat erect hoping the music is not only in my head.

Everything
is turning Purple. . .

The sky,
the stars,
the little bird on the wire,
my finger nails . . . his lips. . .

I have always loved this color,
It reminds me of something fragile,
Snow and a gray pullover. . .

The smell of the fire,
not woods or candle,
the fire itself,
kindles something in me.

It smells like Satan,
Like forbidden. . .

I can tell it's different.
I have always walked between the lines,
on cold concrete
that freezes all my senses.

I’m thrown back to a dark road. . .
I keep asking: "are we there yet?"
my father tells me
we’re there
when the little white lines on the road are finished.

I looked out of the car window,
White/black/white/black...

I guess we never really arrived,
‘cause the little sniggering white lines never ended...

The black background finally took over the roads
that were supposed to take us home...

I'm brimming with paradoxes.
I’m bored to death
and I hate amusement parks.
My fingers are chilled
and yet my hands aflame everything they touch...

I painted all the mirrors black,
for I am mourning...

The sad girl in the mirror died last night
when I was trying to tell her the truth...
That she never existed...
She was looking in the coffee cup,
she was just telling me
that I am holding a green moon in my hands
and I thought,
she's not as good a liar as I am...

She burned down while I was holding her hands
trying to tell her
that everything is going to be ok.

Her ashes burden my soul...
Should I have let her stay in her little lie of an imaginary life?

Even in my dreams,
I can see the little boy in the street with bouquets of Narcissus
running between cars begging people
to buy flowers,
to buy happiness,
to buy life...
and glassy eyes
look right through him,
to the red lights,
stopping them,
from being alive...

God how much I want to smell those flowers again,
they remind me of the days when flowers were forbidden for us...
when it would make him feel worse,
I would smell them and describe the scent to my father...

I thought it’s a good day to leave,
I packed all my loneliness
and dragged it with me all the way...
All the way I yawned
and tried to find the moon,
to hug it for a man,
who lives in my mail box,
with sun in his every word
and his heart,
but I guess I swallowed it
in one of my dreary yawns,
‘cause I feel bright inside
and dark and jaded on the outside.

 I took another sedative and numbed everything again...
They weaken the reality,
They weaken logic,
They weaken loneliness,
They weaken faith,
sorrow,
Heart...
They weaken all that defines me...

I’m home now,
The music is still playing in my head,
Now I'm back.
I’m where everything is fragile
and white
and the gray pullover is still in the closet...

I’m home,
Where everybody buys me Narcissus to make me happy...
I’m home where everything smells like my mom,
like her ultra human patience,
like, purple. 

Dec 02, 07 Isfahan Iran