Run

It is just that simple
I will break your heart…
and you will follow my hands with your eyes
like a little pigeon pushed to a corner;
vulnerable
lonely
still following my every step;
running after me when I’m leaving
running away from me when I come towards you:

Fearful yet faithful
that my hands will comfort your little scarred bleeding heart.

But I,
will break your heart…

Even though the ice in my chest
thaws between those hands;
those fingers
with their gentle roughness
those strong green pumping lines
that make me feel so little:

as if I’m traveling in your veins
curling up by the white hill of your knuckle…
No your hands,
with their enviable control
and the ability to bruise my soul
will not stop me…

I will pick you up,
from that corner
feed you bread crumbs
and then smother you
with my overbearing love…

Didn’t I tell you?
I will break your heart.

July 27, 2011

9 Lives

As I sat on the old lady’s lap
watching her knit a tangerine shawl
I thought I should probably tell her
that I'll be dead by tomorrow morning.

But I start stu..tu..tu...tutering
every time I try to tell her
that I've li..li..li...lived up all my 9 lives.

Death baffles me
even though we’re no strangers.

She’d be so disappointed...

she knits and knits
and I stretch longer and longer
so serene,
light,
cozy,
at ease
and I stop stuttering
thinking about how I'll die the next morning
it satisfies me...

I purr and she knits
I watch her making loops with yarn
softly
playfully around her finger
and we’re both at peace.

I never thought leaving could feel so right.

a bag of marbles shine in the yellow warm light of the fire.
one of them catches my eye.
It’s green...
reminds me of some life I lived,
6 lives ago.

A thought crosses my mind:
jumping around frantically
trying to catch the shiny, glassy, green eye on the floor...
but I won’t
I’m too dead to care.

Tumbling down on the tangerine shawl
tangled...
I wrap it around myself
she stops knitting
letting her crooked fingers rest on her knees
we both rest
shiny eyes on the floor
fuzzy warm bed
and someone who cares...

I purr with content
heavy
old
bundled up
ready...

then,
all gets da..da..da...dark...
hushed
and hazy
and I wake up
feeling old
looking young
with fake glassy shiny green eyes.

I look for the old crooked fingers
that never stop
and find her,
resting her oldness
in the stench of a dead cat
wrapped in a tangerine shawl...

we both stumble down into a heaven,
where I sc..c...cratch my eyes out
and some old lady weaves them
into a tale of tangerine dreams...

March 04, 2011

Frankenstein

I can speak to things
and can hear them talk.

It’s like I'm god of paltry objects.

Two little white alien creatures I have for hands
constantly try to itch away,
the superficiality that’s been sprinkled over my skin
glossed,
glazed,
to make it glow with imperfection and flaw;

because underneath,
I am just entirely,
undeniably,
perfect.

So I want you to be my groom;
take a wooden comb
and brush my mystical skin
and scratch all the shine away.
Never mind the scars.
Every little scratch on my face
would make me more of the woman
I hide underneath this false presence.

I persist in the dream I make of you at nights
and in the morning,
you still don’t know why you want me
and what is this air I have around me…
the eccentric, exotic image of a mythical being?

and when I walk out to my maturity,
it rains dead butterflies from the sky;
then you jump out of my brain
and become an entity
like my hands.

I chop off all the arrows
that flow from my eyes
pointing to your hideous reality
to make myself believe
that I don’t know where this is going
and I don’t know that the air around me
is nothing but the stench of my old decaying soul.

I dissolve in your mouth
like that drop of fluid insanity
dissolves in the brain stew you have inside your skull

I drink every last drop of your brains

my lips are traumatized.

Frankly you were never my ‘type’
I recognize my own handwriting
and I don’t remember
ever writing that disturbingly seductive smirk of yours

This infatuation is not my style.

I think I might as well have stolen every little unworthy piece of you.

But you are entirely mine,
my own creation;

because you know,

I talk to paltry things
and they never lie.

and that cigarette that tasted you before I did,
told me that your breath
never smelled like Bavarian fruit cakes;

but i still dissolve in your mouth
in the dead fish smell of your breath
in a repulsive urge,
to stand and watch you
in the excruciating pain of your nescience.

It’s like watching a moth fly in the acid,
that I made rain over the city
that sprang out of my mind.

Do you know that under my bed
there’s a corner where I hide all the glossy shards of my flesh
and they dance
like mad little demons at night?

and they talk,
with their shrill voices,
about the softness of the rosy petals
I had for lips
before you stained them with your morbid touch?

but I don’t see that
I believe in that hollow hue on your cheek;
that thick saliva you drenched me in,
when you try to swallow all that I am,
and spit me out
to change the taste that oldness left in my mouth.

Now you’re my sorbet,
and I adore that whole act of confusion
with that broken look that says
I’m desperate for all the mending
that your white little aliens can do.

I fell for you
I fell off the high horse I was riding,
and became obsessed with creation.

I fell,
for you.

...and I thought I made you;
and all your totalitarian kingdom,
that parade of shamanic sweetness in your eyes
every time you exiled me to an island
looking for your nomadic heart
wandering between the umbilical residues
never reaching the shore
of the heart
I wrote in my bible for you to have.

But wait,
were you ever mine?

Jan 31, 2011

La dame du rêve

Darkness,
summons the ocean.
foams,
mount up
erupt,
and she
rises,
alluring.

She oozes,
sensuality
charm
femininity.

Her body throbs
with every wave
She moves
She sails
She fades...

With every breath
the mirrors of my consciousness
are fogged up
more and more
and I am not able to see
how deadly she can be.

She sings
She floats
on my bosom
over my belly
between my thighs

I feel broken
hurt
bruised
still infatuated

With her every move
I rise
I throb
with agony
I cave in.

With every word she whispers
I feel my unyielding logic slip
like a little fish
through the fingers of my conviction
she sings
for the lost men in the sea
mesmerized forever
Enthralled
with the sound of her voice.

The last siren they whisper in each others' ear.

She weeps
in my arms
for the deadly touch she owns...

I wash all the death
off my body
with her tears
and slip down with her
into the dark,
deep,
end of the ocean...

where I sing
where I weep
where she rises
and I fall

Where the victory
is all but mine...

Dec 18, 2010

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

Interrupted

No

I refuse

No

Not me

Not the moon...

Not that scent

Not that note

Not that warmth

Not that touch

Not that feeling

I Will Fall...


I say
No.

November 15, 2009 Tehran

Fragility

Today,
I gave birth to my mother.

I’m the little woman
who died, too soon...
I am the continuation of a generation of women,
who failed,
despite being the strongest women of the earth.

I,
The witch,
The martyr,
The virgin,
The saint,

I’ll for ever be
the legacy of those,
whose flame went so high,
It burned down the heavens...

I am the last Mother.
The heat of the Sun,
the depth of the Sea,
the wild of the Forest…
I am the light of the Moon...

I am the goddess of the world. . .
even more...

I am Persephone,
the mortal,
who became the queen of the Underworld...

I don’t need to be saved,
I’m just fine in this world of dark...

I am used to walking amongst the dead everyday,
many don’t even know they’re dead yet...

I carry the spring with me,
but I’ll leave the winter for you...
I may even trick you and me,into thinking,
that I am invincible,

but take good care of me,
I’m more fragile than I know.

July 22, 2009