Abort

Foetal death forced my hand.
Over.

Tied to our Bedpost

One o'clock and the walls whirr and hum into full swing - mad fighting voices rise up next door, reaching a boiling point, woman carries on yelling.
Doors open and close shut, real angry. Doors, balconies, hedges, if the hedges were pulled down a field of swaying... would soon flood over and carry it all to the elevator, where he leaves, door bangs, real heavy. It's over for tonight I think, but mad boils, never boils off fully. Perpetually reinforcing bottle, emotions condense and boil again, furious. Here, and I am sitting impotently on the other side of the wall that goes, boom, boom, blast. "Fuck you". Spells over and runs to the well, crying, crying and pulling hair, to the tub, still more pills to stick in your hole, panic rush and vomit, sleep, it'll all be over soon. But he's back again tomorrow, go to your mother's, he can't find you there, you say, until he comes banging, he wants the kid, but this is all getting a little too cliche, comme une formule. Tom's Variety, they refill ink, signature drawled across paper, now you're here, a lifetime; wait I think I hear consummation against the wall, my ears pressed and more, on the other side they're fucking. We messed it up again, you've filled the bottle right up. Fed, head, and he's back out the door. I can't understand these people any better,
tourist.

"You become what you worship", speaks the ant as it scales up the mound, past the mushrooms feeding patiently on detritus. Heavyweight crumb on its shoulder, up, up the mount.

There's food for all.

Pesach is upon us, and we must slaughter the image of what we have become,

passive. 

The second floor must be real high for you... you got a nosebleed? Camera pans onto the bloodstained mattress. O' caucasian female - how did you die? You bled so much. Sheep, tied to the bedpost.

He knew the life of the mind, the heat of hell, don't you tell him about suffering, don't you dare come in here,

tourist,

typewriter in tow,

this is my story.

It'll be alright, we'll fix her up.

They would tame a group of reindeer, by castrating the most aggressive male, tying up ball-shaped bells round his neck; he would lead the rest. Spread the word, Moshe!

-azine/-idol/-idone

You're stuck in the stinker.
Wind hisses, one foot in the door
       angles wailing bent
       no alcoves here,
       they committed themselves
       they are warded off;
       reality ends with your sunday mass,
but we've always been
dreamers.

You've struck and spent
the golden -
       photos, recitals, sub-conscious literal mind sounds

you spoke of cotton candy clouds
but all I see are shaken
      and grey ones
      hazy and listless.

Engine rattle tubercular
despair revs up,
wheels and drumsticks spinning
us, in the animal soup of time

wretched mind,
celluloid and all is all
we've got.

Where are we going, ....? Due back in an hour - daypassers. Which way does your jalopy point tonight?

When Alone

When I close my door and the room opens up, exactly like I left it: the living room bare and uninviting the kitchen, appliances and all... oh yes! I forgot to dump the coffee grinds, they are still waiting for me, patiently, to slide them on into the orange polyethylene, one more stop on the way to the graveyard, and then they will return to their vital elements, yes! I am the mediator, negotiating their passage.

I have filled up lines about nothing, moods, and feelings, expanding on little nuances, observations, here and there and more, since, well I am alone for weeks on end, and that's what we, I, do, when alone, when there is no intermediary or animate.

Deep sighs, abound. Yes.

So observations, I make a lot of them. I remember... - oh this calls for a new paragraph!

Yes. I was walking along with my dad, I recall, we were walking over a pedestrian bridge, in Tehran, on our way to the International Book Fair! I was in the market, so to speak, for some books, but at the time I wasn't very knowledgeable, and had only few names of authors floating in the ether of my cranium. Yes, but I was desperate to strike out a gem at the fair!

Well it was the summer of course - that is when fairs happen - and we were walking over said bridge, there were people walking past us, some slower than others. In any case, my dad nods over to a person - I don't remember exactly, but he must have been wearing an odd article of clothing, some colour that caught his eyes - he says,

look at that man, there,
now, if you want to be an author at some point in your life, you must take note of people,
their clothing, perhaps
their gait, their physical stature, something that strikes you,
these are the characters of your story,
make observations.

A valuable lesson. One that I remind myself of, daily. Sometimes, of course, as has been the case lately, I observe too keenly, trying to make up a story in my head, for every little sign, every old man at the bus stop, the way the bus kneels, the shades of snow, the way the last rays of sun glance on yellow bricks, lodged firmly in low-income housing. Yes. Nevertheless, I live by this rule, make observations to colour your life in.

Late Janaury

Slow down river, you're moving too fast
I'm grateful
I see you still
through bare cross-hatchings
naked branches and boughs
stay still

As I see
your murky waters
ever-changing,

                        ever-changing
like the eyes of that Flaubertian heroine
muddied by the rain
or silver-plated
cracked up into white life rafts
and woefully black at
night

as I stare
in and on the surface
we are the same
still here
and always moving

you quail and quiver
dear trees, friends, love of mine
still, stay still
I am here.