Seesaw

She shook intensely in full rage her dumb father's shoulders
And with her filled with tears eyes
Shouted: "I'm happy. I'm happy!"

Odd

There are moments that you are neither sad nor happy and you cry;
Moments in which
Another piece of you is separated from you
And is destroyed in an unknown vacuum,
Somewhere around.

Nonwords

I: Why am I struggling to unlive a life that I don’t want to?

God: …

I: I’m a grown-up now. Just tell me why.

God: …

I: I hate everything and myself.

God:…

I: OK, don’t you think it’s high time for you to finish me?

God: …

And I lived thousands of years afterwards!

On the Wing

Staring at the yellow chrysanthemums;
The shadow of the autumnal clouds on my hands;
I’m free…

A Paramour Called Life

She lets go of herself in the arms of everybody.
She laughs,
Coquets,
Cries of joy!
While someone from the back
Keeps me seated on a chair,
Forcing me to watch all these scenes
And retelling each story by only tapping my heels to the floor.
I’m frigid!

I’ve had an affair with Ezraiel*

Once, Ezraiel and I were in love. I met him first, sitting opposite me in a train. There was no one in between us. The first thing he told me was: “nice hands!” and I suddenly looked down at my hands and smiled back at him, thinking with myself: “But my hands are not nice!” Though I never met him before I knew him. The way he smelled was very familiar. His voice, his being was familiar. In a part of me I always felt he is after me. I spent the best moments of my life with him; for he was in me, not with me. Once in another train sitting opposite me he said his very last words and since then I never saw him again:
“You should have died in my arms a long time ago.”
I heard these words looking down at my hands, but when I looked up he was gone.
So we broke up because he had to kill me in his own arms. And for he loved me, he let go of me in the middle of limbo. He has even hidden me from me…
How cruel, how kind you are. How easily you dissolved in me in you in nowhere.

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* Ezraiel in Farsi is the name of a fallen angel who is responsible for taking people’s lives.

A Well-Lit Eating Space

Left hand on the right one, with a lit forgotten cigarette in between two fingers, I am sitting in a dirty populous café. I’m told that I have a rendezvous with three people and they haven’t showed up yet. I don’t remember at all if someone in my last night’s dream has told me so or someone in the real world. Or maybe this is a false thought or illusion. I have to wait anyway and see how it goes. Here the air is full of smoke but I enjoy the smoke of my cigarette spread in the whole air and dissolve in others’ smoke. It causes a kind of useless unity that I haven’t seen anywhere. Smoke should dissolve in smoke and stone should tear stone. There is no special explanation for this, but I like the structure and the dream behind it.

A girl sits in front of me and puts her bag and umbrella beside my cup. I watch people under the rain from the window beside me. The girl orders a tea and sugars it. After drinking her tea she starts advising me while I am not in a big shock. She tells me to be in love like her and see how interesting life would be, how sweet! I am gazing at people outside whose lives are way too interesting like hers. She talks for one hour with a complicated bad voice that I don’t hear anymore after a few minutes. My trousers have become slightly wet by the water flowing from her umbrella on the table and so I feel somehow cold in my back. She leaves I think after the same one hour and I chase her among the wet crowd.

I light another cigarette and puff on it when I open my eyes, to the face of a young man who is sitting opposite me. He is so good-looking with a nice beard. When I get that he is insisting on things which are tried once by a part of me, I don’t unconsciously hear him anymore. He takes out a book from his pocket and starts reading it to me. I don’t know to what religion it belongs to, but I feel I have heard the content before frequently. He doesn’t order anything to drink or eat. I remember his face well while he was drowning in my cigarette smoke, moving the air by his left hand while keeping the book in his right hand. The rain keeps falling on young men and women and speeds their actions in a funny way. The young man leaves me while I am gazing at a full-of-water hole outside in which people put their feet and the water splashes around. One drop falls on the surface of the glass next to me. He pats me on my back warmly though I don’t feel any warmness at all. He comes and goes like a breeze and he vanishes among other wet people whose noses are reddened by coldness of January. I wonder again for whom I am waiting here and how they would look like. I don’t know how many cigarettes I have extinguished in this wooden ashtray and here is the last one for now.

I put my head on the table and close my eyes for seconds. I order another coffee and when the old waitress brings it to me she sits down opposite me. I am surprised and I think maybe she is tired and wants to relax for seconds. Drinking my coffee I look deep into her eyes. She looks back into my eyes and says she was once young and beautiful like all those people out there. That she has many sweet memories from the past. She tells me to always hang on to my memories. Old people like their past because they have no other thing to stick to and talk about. And her old sad voice melts in my ears after a few minutes. Someone calls her and she goes. I look at my watch. I’ve waited there for a couple of hours for people whom I don’t know yet. I put the money on the table and wear my coat. When I open the door of the café, a cool breeze touches my face like the hand of an ex-friend. I take a deep breath and depart. The streets are empty and dark blue.

Futile Nows…

I’ll be lost somewhere no one would find me,
Between the forgotten rotten yellow leaves of an autumn;
In a vacuum between the past and present,
Which are both nothing,
Like the future.
All the gone moments have been each a future of chances and choices,
Not taken and made.
I’m stuck into this soil’s muddy hands.
How easily
I shiver,
I fall,
Though rooted…

Oversimplification

The oversimplified “I”
Keeps longing for nothingness
Among this excited, ever happy crowd,
Whose collars are wetted by the gray autumnal rain,
But don’t feel cold.

A Letter to Humanity

Dear humanity;

I don’t feel good at this very moment. I don’t feel good at all to write this letter to you, but I have the courage to. I’m brave enough to call you names and humiliate you. But I’m not going to do this. I don’t hate you but I don’t have any devotion towards you either. This is only a moment of revelation.

What are you really thinking? How dare you write every nonsense you want on me? I hope this would not end in a misunderstanding. For what I’m complaining about is not the essence of writing, but it is all the contradictions that I see in and within your empty world. A lover takes a piece of paper and writes his beloved a letter and describes whatever he feels and then when he sees her to give her the letter he squeezes me at the bottom of his pocket and doesn’t mention at all that he has written a letter on me. What should I do then? A philosopher who pretends to hate life and so doesn’t really live a life, takes a marker and fills all my sensitive skin with any kind of bull he wants; then he shuts the door behind himself and causes all my cells to shake for seconds. What does he really want from the poor wretched life? Some other time a girl who was laughing until a couple of hours ago with her friends, takes a red lipstick and writes on me that “Nobody is responsible for my death!”. And then she looks deeply into my eyes and brushes her hair and chops up her veins and dies. And the day after they print on me that a girls commits suicide for unknown reasons.

What is wrong with you humans? See what kind of hell you have made for yourselves and what a deep grave you have dug.
You have always polluted me with your own hands and have let go of me. You have always left me for some passerby to read, to ask for their attention though they don’t even give me a quick scan.

Although I’m so sick of the heaviness of your hands on me I have to tolerate and bear the life that you planned for me; exactly like you! The only difference is that I know myself but you don’t know yourselves. Eat your heart out humanity!


Never looking forward to hearing form you,

Yours never,
Blank Page

Relaxant

A butterfly burns.
Someone calls me I guess.
They are burnt on the fire of human's skull,
No air needed, despite the vacuum.Can someone tell how this fire is set?

A Fearful Confession

I can’t exactly remember since when, as an angel, I started crying. One thing I know for sure and that is the fact that it hasn’t been haphazard. I discovered that I could cry too by a special event that I don’t remember.

The world I live in has only three colors: black, white and gray. I don’t know what color I am but it is different from these three and it’s different from those of yours. Can you describe your colors?

I cry many times. I cry when I fly and that is when someone suddenly feels a cold drop on his cheek but when he looks upward at the sky he finds out that it’s not raining. I cry when I dream that there is a bifurcation of a path. Because I don’t know what I should do and which path I should take; for I don’t know how to choose. But I’ve seen that many of you easily can. Can anyone teach me how to choose? I cry a lot when I see a girl push her face into the pillow and cry for she misses love—maybe in vain and maybe not. I don’t know what I should do for her, because I don’t know how to help. No one has taught me to. I cry for I cannot walk on earth. My heels are always so above the earth.

I cry; for I cannot be you and it is exactly when you suddenly feel very cold at dawn…